Setting Rain on Fire
by privatephilosopher
Summary: Santana and Brittany cope with the loss of something important to them. Will it tear them apart or bind them closer together?
1. Beginning at the End

**Setting Rain on Fire**

**Chapter One: Beginning at the End**

"_I died a hundred times."_

_~ Back to Black, Naya Rivera_

Santana POV:

I've never noticed how rhythmic the rain sounds when it's falling. Right now, tapping against the material of the umbrella above my head, I can almost make out a beat. On any other day I might have smiled at myself at this small, silly discovery. I might have marveled in the comfort of a steady sound. I might have told Brittany that she was right about the world creating its own music, "just like August Rush."

But not today.

My gaze absorbs the scene playing out. I feel like I've been shoved head-first into a black and white movie: everyone is in black, and the rain makes it difficult to identify any other color. Then again, it might just be me. It would be painfully fitting if all the color in my world faded away.

My eyes land on the casket being lowered into the ground before me, and I want to scream into the sky. _Take me. I'm the one dead here. I'm dying right now, can't you see? Why can't it be me? _I feel someone tighten their grip around my left hand. I inhale deeply and the scent of wet grass and upturned soil fills my lungs, along with the faint smell of Brittany's perfume. On any other day that same smell would make me feel calm and reassured, but today it makes me feel even colder inside.

"San." I hear her choke out from my left.

I turn my gaze to meet hers. Her cheeks are pale and shining with the tracks of her tears. I press my lips to her right cheek because I don't know what else I can do, and I taste the salty liquid cascading downwards. For a few seconds I feel furious that she can cry while I can't.

Then I feel Quinn nudge me gently from behind, and I take it as a cue to turn forward. Puck is standing in front of me uncovered, the rain soaking his rented suit. His face is grim as he holds out a shovel with his two hands.

Oh, right.

As I release Brittany's hand and take the heavy shovel from Puck, I allow myself a small moment to feel revolted at the irony of it all. I can explain what I hear, what I see, what I touch, what I smell, and what I taste, but I can't even begin to express how I feel as I toss the first layer of soil over my son's coffin.

Brittany POV:

I'm raining.

There's a raging hurricane inside me and the only signs of it are the tears that are racing down my face. It makes me feel like the rain falling around me are just tears that the sky is crying. Even the heavens can't stand this pain.

Beyond my tears, everything is blurred and nothing is distinct: everything is just a mess of dark colors and shapes. My hand is cold and empty where Santana left it. Vaguely, I see her toss soil into the abyss where my son will sleep in forever. The soil seems to be suspended in air, rolling around, before landing with a light splat of finality on the wooden coffin. Santana says nothing.

Without looking at me, she holds the shovel out. But I just can't. I can't be cover up my son like this, I can't stand to let the earth swallow him up. I can't. I won't.

So I back away from the shovel, a whimper bursting from my mouth involuntarily.

Santana does look at me then, and the look in her eyes frightens me. Just a few minutes earlier when she kissed my cheek, her eyes were pained and tortured, but now her eyes look dead and empty. But she seems to understand that I can't do what she's silently asking me to, so her gaze moves to the person behind me.

I feel Quinn's hand on my shoulder, squeezing briefly, before she steps forward and takes the shovel from Santana. Then she gathers soil and gently hurls it into the hole.

I feel stupid, and weak, and heartbroken. And just as the soil from Quinn's toss lands on the casket, thunder rumbles through the open sky, and I feel as though I've betrayed Nicholas.


	2. Echoing Silence

**Setting Rain on Fire**

**Chapter Two: Echoing Silence**

"_No one dared disturb the sound of silence."_

_The Sound of Silence, Simon and Garfunkel_

Santana POV:

Rachel Berry is so stupid.

It's the only thought my pounding head manages to hold on to as Brittany and I sit in the darkened bar belonging to some friend of Puck – some guy named Mark or Harry – drinking out hearts out with all the alcoholic beverages we could get our unsteady hands on.

It's a few hours after the funeral. In retrospect, I have no idea how I managed to survive the painful monotony of it all: the people coming up to me wearing those sad looks in their faces, their voices dripping with sympathy as they gave their condolences. "It will be alright." _How do you know? Have you ever lost a child?_ "You must be in so much pain." _Go figure. I just lost my son, idiot._ "I can't even begin to fathom how much agony you must be in." _No shit, Sherlock._ "I'm so sorry." _What for? Did you kill my son?_

I would take their words with a quiet face and acknowledge their presence with a slight nod. They would in turn grasp my arm, or shoulder. It was Brittany who would say, "Thank you," over and over. It was Brittany they would wrap their arms around, before moving off to make small talk with strangers they would never meet again.

I wasn't stupid. I knew that after the service, these people would leave in their cars and drive back into their lives, until the memory of my wife and I – along with 'our pain' – would be nothing but a speck of dust on their rearview mirrors.

Funerals are such lonely things.

There was only one point in the event when I opened my mouth: when Berry had unwittingly declared, "Well, everything happens for a reason."

Quinn had shot her a glare that would have silenced Zeus. Puck had gnashed his teeth at her like a mad dog, and Brittany had burst into another shower of relentless tears, and I had responded with a cool, "Shut up, you bitch. Don't you even dare try to justify this."

Shaking my head to remove the memory of Rachel's stunned face, I take the glass in front of me and swallow its contents in one gulp. My throat burns at the contact, but my tongue can no longer distinguish one taste from another. Somewhere along my fifteenth drink I swallowed my sense of taste, and now it resides somewhere in the pit of my liver.

In a small corner of my mind where I'm still sober and lucid, I tell myself off for drinking so much. I was dimly aware that this would all lead up to a killer hang-over that would hurt like hell in the morning. But I don't care. Physical pain would be a great distraction from the emotional torment.

Beside me, I feel more than I see Brittany down another drink. For a moment I feel worried. Brittany has never drank this much alcohol in her life. She didn't even go through her normal stripper-drunk reaction, wrapping herself instead in a web of silence that no one could seem to unravel.

In front of us, behind the bar, Quinn and Puck sit patiently. For the past half hour Quinn had tried to convince us to stop drinking, but her pleas had fallen flat on deaf ears. Puck, on the other hand, had resolved to remain silent, choosing to express his disapproval by reducing the amount of alcohol he would serve in our glasses.

Around an hour ago, Kurt, Blaine, Mike and Tina were drinking along with us, trying to decrease the strain that was palpable in the air. They talked about all the things they'd managed to do – and not do – since we graduated high school, almost a decade ago. But nothing they said would record in my mind, and Brittany refused to participate in any form of conversation, so they eventually gave up and left. As I expected them to.

Back in the present, Quinn moves forward and takes my hand gently in hers.

"Guys," she says slowly, "we've got to go."

"'Kay," I slur. "G'bye."

"No," Puck speaks up for the first time that night. "You've got to come with us."

I shake my hand as I reach for another shot. But my reflexes have been inhibited, and Puck makes it to the glass before I do.

"You've had enough."

I open my mouth to argue, but Brittany cuts in.

"S."

I turn to Brittany, trying to clear my head and focus. From the corner of my eye, I see Puck and Quinn exchange an alarmed glance. Brittany hasn't said a word since we left the graveyard.

"Ya?" I manage, trying to sound coherent.

"'M drunk." Her voice is dangerously low, her eyes are downcast.

"I know, babe." I whisper, reaching out to lightly graze her cheeks. She shakes her head sluggishly.

"S'not enough."

I frown in confusion, before replying, "Huh?"

"'M not drunk enough." Pause. "I can still remember."

Brittany POV:

I love my friends, but sometimes I wish they could just go away.

I know they're just trying to help. Puck had practically done every method in the book – negotiating, arguing, threatening, begging – just to get his friend (Cory? Or maybe it was Kevin) to lend him this place for the night. Quinn had left her precious daughters to the care of her mother, a woman for whom she didn't have the slightest sliver of trust, a woman who still disapproved of her daughter's marriage to _that-mohawked-Jewish-boy_. Kurt had cancelled his meetings with some of LA's most prominent gay support groups, while Blaine had postponed a promotional event for his latest tour. Mike had skipped a negotiation for a huge choreography gig. Tina was supposed to have a screening for a TV series.

They're making sacrifices to try to make things better. But they don't understand one crucial thing: they can't make things better. They could all jump from a cloud and paint rainbows in the sky and that still wouldn't distract me from how this all feels, not in the slightest.

Even the alcohol fails to make things better. I came here in the hopes that I would puke out all the emotions bottled up inside me and replace them with alcohol, but even now as I'm more wasted than I've ever been in my entire life, I know it isn't working.

And I can tell it isn't working for Santana either.

So when Quinn continues to insist that it's time to go, I feel a wave of panic crash through me. Neither Santana nor I are even faintly prepared to go home in this state. Going home to a house filled with memories would only serve to aggravate all the feelings I've been trying so hard to suppress.

"Stay with us." Puck says in a firm voice. "At least for tonight. Neither of you are fit to drive anyway." Santana looks at me, her eyebrow raised in a silent question. After a moment of hesitation, I nod imperceptibly.

"A'right." I lay my hands on the flat surface of the bar as I try to raise myself into my shaking legs. I stumble slightly, but Santana's hand catches me and steadies me. Her hand is warm on my arm, but she lets go of me almost immediately, and I feel bitter disappointment coursing through my veins.

It's only much later, as I stare at the unfamiliar sight of her back turned to me in the unlit guest bedroom in the Puckerman household, that I wonder if she's trying to avoid touching me.

.


	3. Frozen in Perpetual Motion

**I never realized how satisfying writing fanfic could be. This is my first real shot at it and it's overwhelming. Hope you guys like the latest chapter. I promise all the ambiguous aspects of the story will be cleared out really soon. :)**

**/**

**Setting Rain on Fire**

**Chapter Three: Frozen in Perpetual Motion**

"_And the planets of the universe go their way."_

_Planets of the Universe, Fleetwood Mac_

Brittany's POV:

_It's half an hour after seven and I need to drop Nicholas off at school soon._

_His breakfast is growing cold on the kitchen table, just like Santana's coffee is. I smile to myself in amusement. Nicholas may be my biological son but he takes after Santana in almost all her habits, such as her general slothful behavior in the morning, her witty but often sarcastic humor, her insane love of anything remotely similar to Breadstix._

_Others might have minded, but it only made me love him so much more. And I know that Santana was secretly glad of all these similarities. I knew that deep in her heart of hearts, she resented the fact that it was impossible for us to have a child with biological links to both of us. This made me sad sometimes, but she'd always brushed it off with a gentle: "At the end of the day, it doesn't really matter, Britt. You're sharing a part of you – a very special, sacred part of you – with me. That's the only thing that really counts."_

_I truly admire how she hid the pain so well and worked really hard to make everything perfect. Just a few months ago, Nicholas had celebrated his fifth birthday, and she had coordinated the event so well that all our friends managed to arrive for the celebration. I smile as I remember what a blast the day had been. Santana and Nicholas had even played a little practical joke on Rachel that had resulted in her covered in ice water, dyed to look like Cherry Slushies._

_I check my wrist watch and moan at the time. At this rate he would be late for school, Santana late for work. I stand up and make my way up the stairs to the bedrooms._

_Nicholas's room is the first that I arrive to. Tentatively, I knock on the door – Santana and I agreed to respect his 'privacy' – and wait for the muffled, "Five more minutes, mom," that I get every morning._

_But after almost thirty seconds, I hear no reply._

_Shaking my head, I call out, "Nicky, it's time to get up. If you don't prepare for school soon we won't be able to drop by the park to feed the ducks."_

_I press my ear to the door, but still I hear nothing._

_A white-hot trickle of panic slides slowly down my spine and I feel my heart start to hammer painfully against my ribs. I grasp the doorknob and twist forcefully, but it doesn't budge. With growing apprehension I realize the door must be locked._

_Nicholas never locked his door._

"_Santana!" I scream as loudly as I can manage through my shaking lips. Then I tense my upper body and ram myself against the door._

_It gives in almost immediately, and I stumble into the room._

_I steady myself, and I look up to the area of the room where Nicholas's bed should be located._

_But there's nothing there. There are no Batman bedsheets, no Scooby-doo figurines lining his bedside table. With growing horror, my eyes focus enough to register that there isn't anything in the room. It's completely and utterly bare, except a lone figure standing in the middle of the room._

_He's dressed in pure white. His dirty blond hair sticks out at odd angles on his head, and his piercing blue eyes are wide and open. And as I watch, he opens his mouth and blood spurts out._

_Everything goes black. I fall to my knees and scream._

/

Santana's POV:

Life goes on. Except it doesn't.

It's been almost two months since the funeral and I still wake up every morning expecting to hear him grumbling sleepily as he walks into the kitchen, a habit Brittany used to say came from me.

It's been almost two months, and neither Brittany nor I have talked about it. We talk about other things. Or at least, we try to talk about other things. But there doesn't seem to be anything to talk about anymore. Most of our conversations nowadays consist of empty monosyllables that mean nothing to either of us. I can't even remember the last time I told her I love her, or the last time she told me she loved me. Two months ago we were inseparable, but now I feel like we're trying to avoid as much contact as possible.

It's been almost two months, and neither Brittany nor I have dared to open Nicholas's room. Hell, I still can't walk past it without cringing internally. I know Brittany's taking this one a little bit harder. I see the way she starts to shake whenever she's nearing his room. I see the way her jaw tenses and her eyes glaze over. I see it but I say nothing. I don't know what to say.

It's been almost two months and everything's changed. Brittany's quit dancing and resorts to moping around the house, or sitting out in the garden. Her eyes, which were once bright and clear, are now eerily lackluster. She barely has an appetite, and she's lost a lot of weight. She's put away all the things around our house that remind her too much of Nicholas: the duck-shaped oven mittens, the magnets on the refrigerator door. The drawings that once lined the stairway, the pictures that used to hang on the walls. She didn't even ask about my opinion on the matter. I just came home from work one day and saw the boxes by the attic door.

It's been almost two months and everything's changed, but sometimes I feel like the world is mocking me because it seems like nothing really has. I still have to go to work, although now I no longer feel intense motivation to succeed – all the best of my inspirations died along with my son. But there are still bills to pay, people to please, deals to make, nights to live through. There are still so many things to do, and I do them because I don't want to deal with anything else. And that's why, after almost two months, I'm still here doing my morning routine, drinking coffee.

And I just feel so fucking pissed.

I feel as though Brittany and I are suspended in some vacuum between time and space. We see everything around us moving forward, going on with life. And we can't flow along with the rest of the world because we're stuck. Because we've been rendered incapable of flowing along with the rest of the universe. We're both just so powerless and I hate it.

I'm staring at the rim of my coffee mug, lost in my thoughts, when I hear a blood-curling shriek burst from upstairs.

I don't waste any time leaping to my feet, and racing to the source of the scream: our bedroom. I burst through the open door and see the heart-wrenching sight of Brittany twisting in her sleep. I can tell by the contorted expression on her face that she's having another nightmare. Sweat is gathering on her forehead, and her eyes are moving rapidly behind her eyelids. Her breath is coming out in short, quick gasps. I move towards her as she twists again, and the entire bed shifting.

"Brittany." I call out, reaching forward. Almost immediately she lets out a shuddering breath and her eyes open wide. For a few seconds she stares blankly up at the ceiling, her expression vacant and inscrutable. I know that look well by now: she's still getting out of her dream and acclimating herself in reality. Then her expression crumbles and the tears slide down her temples. This is the point where she remembers that reality isn't any better than her nightmares.


	4. Let Me Burn

**Alright, here goes. I can't seem to stop updating.**

**I tried to tone down the angsty-ness (though my friend theangel1710 tells me I haven't succeeded one bit) for this chapter, in preparation for Chapter 5. Also, this is the last chapter that will be under a 'T' rating.**

**Tell me what you think.**

**Setting Rain on Fire**

**Chapter Four: Let Me Burn**

"_There's a side to you that I never knew."_

_Set Fire to the Rain, Adele_

"_Playing with fire, you know you're going to hurt somebody tonight."_

_Playing with Fire, Brandon Flowers_

* * *

><p>"It's been three months."<p>

Quinn's voice is soft but firm. She's leaning forward between Kurt and Puck on the living room couch, her hands clasped under her chin. I'm sitting on the floor, leaning against a wall, staring up at the ceiling. Brittany is standing on one side of the room, toying with the hem of her shirt, a nervous habit. Neither of us says anything.

"Tell me you've at least gone into his room."

I take a deep breath and exhale loudly. I glance at Brittany as she directs her eyes to the floor, her hands trembling. I look at Quinn and meet her penetrating gaze before shaking my head.

Quinn sighs for a minute and leans back. Kurt looks at me for a long moment, before turning to Brittany. He stands up and moves towards her cautiously. I see her tense as he approaches. He notices this as well, and pauses halfway towards her before saying in a gentle tone, "Britt, you can't run away from this forever."

Brittany's countenance shifts at an incredible speed. First she looks broken, then angry, then scared, until her face finally smoothens out to an expressionless look. She takes a step away from Kurt and says in a low voice, "Excuse me. I've got to take a shower."

"Britt." Quinn whispers sadly. Brittany throws me an unfathomable glance over Kurt's shoulder, before turning around and darting for the stairs. Before she vanishes, we hear a broken sob burst from her lips. I feel the pieces of my broken heart breaking even more.

Kurt's shoulders sag and he turns around. He walks back to his spot beside Quinn on the couch and drops into it.

"How have you guys been?" Quinn asks me. "Honestly."

I shrug and look down before clearing my throat and replying, "I don't know. We don't really…" I pause for a short moment, "talk much."

I look up in time to catch Quinn and Puck exchange a look.

"This is bad." Puck murmurs. "What about other things? Do you still… you know… sleep in the same bed?"

I take the nearest object near me – a ball pen – and fling it his direction in disgust, just as Quinn smacks the back of his head with her palm. He catches the pen in midair and stammers, "Hey, hey, I didn't mean anything. I'm honestly asking here."

I ignore him and turn to Quinn, who shoots me an apologetic look.

"I think it's a valid question." Kurt interrupts.

I ignore him as well, before standing up to stretch my aching muscles. I move to the armchair by the couch and drop myself into it. I hesitate before whispering, "I think… maybe we should spend some time apart."

"What are you talking about?" Puck replies gruffly, frowning.

I sigh in exasperation. "Never mind."

"Santana." Kurt admonishes briskly.

"Ugh." I huff. "I think Brittany and I should spend some time apart."

An odd silence fills the room, and I look at anything but the three. I can tell they're having a silent conversation, and I don't want to see the looks they're giving each other.

"And why exactly do you think that?" Quinn wonders, her voice trembling.

A lump grows in my throat and my eyes blur.

"San?" Quinn asks timidly, reaching out to touch my hand. I flinch involuntarily, and she backs off. "Sorry." She whispers.

I shake my head, internally screaming, _'Fuck you Santana. Get a grip on yourself. Now.'_

"I don't think she wants me around." I blurt out.

"How can you tell that? You just said you haven't spoken much." Puck points out.

"Isn't that part of the point?" I say coolly. Then I heave a sigh and say in the clearest voice I can muster, "Around a week ago, after she woke up after another nightmare, I asked if there was anything I could do to help her." I pause for a moment, my eyes watering at the memory.

"And?" Kurt prompted.

I swallow thickly and say in a broken voice, "She said, 'There's only one thing you can do.' When I asked what it was, she turned to me and said sadly, 'Set the rain on fire.'"

Puck breaks the uneasy silence with a confused, "What?"

Quinn turned to her husband and explained, "It was just Brittany's complicated way of saying there was nothing Santana could do."

I feel myself nod absentmindedly. I wasn't going to tell them, but that wasn't the only thing Brittany had told me that morning. Just as I was about to leave for work, she had looked at me with a very dead look and had said softly, _'Stop trying to save me. I'm not worth it.'_

"Santana? Can you hear me?" My eyes snap up. The trio is looking at me with matching looks of worry.

"Spaced out." I whisper.

"I said, can I use your bathroom?" Puck asked.

I shrug and make an offhand gesture towards the stairs. "You know where to go."

Puck stands up and makes his way upstairs, while Kurt and Quinn exchange a glance.

A few minutes later, someone upstairs starts hysterically screaming, "NO! NO!"

* * *

><p>The shower is uncomfortably hot.<p>

I've been standing under the steaming water for the past twenty minutes or so, allowing the water to gush around me undisturbed. The temperature is too high, and I almost feel like I'm being cleansed.

But the minute the water is turned off and I step out to retrieve my towel and bathrobe, I feel unclean. I almost jump back into the shower, but the places on my skin where the normally soft material of the bathrobe makes contact scratch painfully. Although thoroughly appealing, I know it would be a bad idea to make the sensation even worse. I wonder briefly if this is what it feels like to be burned alive.

I walk out of the bathroom and into our room.

The wardrobe is already open, and I pull out underwear, a loose t-shirt, and a pair of sweatpants. I don't even look as I don them on. Nowadays, appearances mean less than nothing to me.

Just as I finish dressing, I hear shuffling outside the bedroom door. I freeze for a moment, before softly making my way to the doorway and prying the door open as quietly as I could.

The sight before my eyes shoots my heart straight into my stomach.

The door to Nicholas's room is ajar, and someone had just walked through it. Without even bothering to think, I launch myself across the distance and grab the back of the person's shirt.

I don't even realize I'm screaming until I felt the soreness in my throat. The person who was in Nicholas's room – I realized it was Puck – was struggling furiously to pin my down. I thrashed as he grabbed my arms, even as I acknowledged in my head that it was pointless. I was severely out of shape, and Puck was a guy.

"Brittany." He muttered urgently, "Listen to me. You've got to stop fighting."

I manage to free a hand, and I pack as much power as I can into the punch that I throw into his face. Behind him, I hear Quinn gasp as blood begins to drip from Puck's split lip.

"Get off her!" I can hear a familiar voice yelling loudly. "Get the fuck off her!" Two arms grab both of Puck's biceps before pulling him upwards. He yelps in pain as he lets me go, and Santana shoves him out the door.

It's only when Puck stumbles over the doorsill that I realize with terror that I'm inside _the_ room. I gasp as I struggle to my feet. Santana seems to realize the same minute as I do exactly where we are.

I want to run out of the room, but Puck, Quinn and Kurt are planted firmly at the doorway.

"You've got to stop fighting." Puck repeats, but in a softer tone.

The air is moving in and out so quickly that my lungs ache at the exertion. Every breath I take is pure torture – it smells exactly the way my son used to. I try to shut my eyes, but even behind the barrier of my eyelids I can practically see everything around me. Everything looks exactly the same as the way he used to keep it. But at the same time, I can also see the nightmares replaying over and over in my head, and before I know it I've curled myself into a tight ball on the floor, barely able to breathe.

I can hear Santana yelling, but her voice sounds so far away. "How could you do this? How the fuck could you do this? You don't understand, none of you fucking understand. You have no idea what we've been through. You have no idea what Brittany's been through. You think you do, but you don't. I can't believe you would plan something like this! I trusted you! She trusted you! We trusted you!"

I can make out Quinn's voice trying to calm Santana down. "We didn't…no concrete plan…just wanted to help…please help us understand…oh Santana, please, we're so sorry…"

"I can't believe you'd do something as cruel as this! I can't believe you'd interfere like this!. Stop trying to help! None of you understand! None of you can help!"

It's the last thing I hear before blacking out.


	5. Dying to Escape

**Thanks to everyone who dropped a review/comment. I appreciate it. :)**

**Setting Rain on Fire**

**Chapter Five: Dying to Escape**

"_Deep in the cell of my heart, I will be so glad to go."_

_Asleep, Emily Browning_

I stop yelling the second Brittany slumps unto the floor, unconscious. I rush to her, panic kicking in with an agonizing force. Quinn pushes me gently to the side and presses two fingers to the pulse point on my wife's neck. After a few seconds, she pulls back her hand.

"It's nothing serious. She just fainted."

Against my better judgment, I release a shuddering breath of relief. Puck moves in and bends over to lift Brittany off the floor, but I make a warning sound at the back of my throat, and he backs off, face wary.

I bend over and gently take Brittany into my arms, tucking her head safely into the crook of my arm. Slowly, I carry her to our bedroom, where I lay her gently on her side of the bed. I step back and stare at her unconscious form for a minute, and I feel something lurch inside me. It's the first time I've touched her in months. Neither of can seem to stand physical contact these days, even from – or rather, most especially from – each other.

My hand extends tentatively, and my trembling fingers thread through her hair. "Oh, Brittany." I hear myself choke out. "What happened to us?"

A muffled sound interrupts my thoughts. Groaning wearily, I remember the three idiots still standing in the hallway. I look at Brittany one last time, before turning around and marching straight out to them.

Puck has his lip pressed to the collar of his shirt, and I see the blood staining the material. Quinn and Kurt are whispering furiously to each other, clearly in the middle of an argument. All of them are oblivious to my return, so I clear my throat noisily. When I'm certain I've got their attention, I point towards the stairs and say, "Down."

Puck goes first. Kurt sighs and looks back at the Nicholas's bedroom before following. Quinn throws me one last apologetic look, moves to the stairs as well. I'm left standing in an empty hallway, the door of my son's room still wide open. I feel myself shaking. I almost call Quinn back to ask her to close the door. Almost.

I know it will take me only five steps to reach out and close the door. If my strides are longer, it will only take three. Then after that all I'll need to do is extend my arm and grasp the doorknob, and pull it towards me. That's all I need to do. _That's all I need to do._ I tell myself over and over. _That's all I need to do._

I take one unsteady step forward. I close my eyes as dizziness hits me, and I take a deep breath through my mouth. I take another step forward. My throat feels dry and the contents of my breakfast are rolling around my stomach, threatening to burst out.

Another step. Blindly, I reach forward for the handle, until I feel my fingers brush against it. I wrap my hand around its cool surface and tug at it slowly, until I hear the door close with a resolute snap.

"Very good, S." I hear Quinn whisper from beside me. For some reason, I'm not that surprised that she's still here. With my eyes still closed, I release the breath I didn't realize I was holding.

My mind is still reeling from what I've just done. I turn to the direction of Quinn's voice and stumble into her arms. They wrap around me immediately, while Quinn murmurs, "I've got you," over and over again.

She holds me for a few more seconds, before I pull away slowly. She hesitates, but eventually lets me go. Then she gently leads me down the stairs and back into the living room. This time, she pushes me to sit between Kurt and Puck, while she takes the arm chair. None of us say anything for a few minutes.

"Listen, Santana. You and Brittany need to work things out together." Quinn eventually says. I swallow visibly and nod dazedly.

"I know." I respond. We lapse back into silence.

"I'm really, really worried about Brittany." Kurt admits. I inhale sharply, and I wrap my arms around myself.

"I know." I repeat. "I'm really worried, too."

"Santana," Quinn begins slowly. I look up at her, urging her to continue. "When we were…upstairs, you mentioned something about how we didn't really know what you two have been through." I close my eyes and nod again. She pauses briefly. "Santana, is there something that neither of you have been telling us?"

I feel the tension rolling around the air like waves.

"Yes." I finally whisper in a breaking voice. I clear my throat and add, "There are things she didn't want other people to know."

"Like?" Puck encourages gently. I look up at the three of them. They're wearing nearly identical looks of concern it would have been comical in any other situation. But not this one. I look into Quinn's eyes and see nothing there but acceptance. I could trust them.

"You guys know the circumstances of…_his_…passing, don't you?" I stammer.

"Of course." Quinn replies solemnly, before adding haltingly, "He was killed."

I nod numbly. "Do you know how?"

"He was stabbed, wasn't he?" Kurt says in a quiet voice. He reaches out and grasps my shoulder tightly.

"Do you know why?" I press on in a dead voice, internally screaming for my resolve not to disappear.

"What do you mean, do we know why?" Puck replies, looking perplexed. "Are you saying that the murder had _intent_?"

Somewhere in the corner of my mind, my training kicks in and I almost tell him that it is 'intent' or 'motive' that distinguishes murder from manslaughter. But I hold my tongue, and instead stand up, taking a deep breath. I walk over to a corner of the room and lean against the wall, hands clasped behind my back. I look up at the ceiling and pray for the courage to continue. It was now or never. I open my mouth and the words burst out like a tidal wave.

"It was Wednesday. It was my day to pick him up, and I would have, if it weren't for that God damn meeting. There was some sort of glitch with the paperwork of one of the firm's biggest cases, and there was hell to pay for, so the board had to meet up for damage control. I was invited to join in on the meeting, and during that time all I could hear was the subtle indications of a promotion. I was only informed of the meeting around half an hour before the actual thing, but I thought it was an opportunity too big to pass up, so I texted Brittany to tell her that I wouldn't be able to get him.

"I'd forgotten that she was giving a special workshop across town and she was going to be ending much later than usual, too. By the time she was done, the roads were blocked over and traffic was a huge bitch. She only managed to get to the six at half past six.

"At this point forward, I'm just going to be repeating the things she had told me and the police." I pause. "The school seemed deserted when she arrived. Normally, he'd be waiting outside by the school entrance, but he wasn't there so she figured that he went back into his classroom or something. She told me that she entered the hallways and called out his name. Then she heard it.

"There was some sort of commotion at the end of the hallway. There was a tall figure bending over a smaller one, and the smaller one seemed to be thrashing. Then the taller figure had snapped, 'Shut up, homo spawn. Keep still!'"

At this point, my voice had dropped an octave lower, and the trio in front of me had looks of sickened horror on their faces.

"She was running towards the end of the hallway when she saw the taller figure stick something into the smaller guy. She told me that the killer had said something like, 'That's because of your pathetic homo parents, you freak.' Then the taller one looked up – Brittany said she didn't realize she was screaming – and saw her coming towards him. He ran into a classroom and got out through a window."

I halt for a moment because I suddenly realize I'm crying. I hear sniffing in the room and realize I wasn't the only one.

"When she got to the…" I swallow painfully past the lump in my throat. "When she got to the body there was blood everywhere. She kind of blacked out at that point, she can't remember anything after that. The guard, who had heard her screaming, found her clutching the body in her arms, rocking back and forth, blood all over her hands and clothes and face…"

"Oh God," Quinn sobs brokenly. Puck takes her into his arms, tears streaming noiselessly down his cheeks. Kurt is sniffing into one hand, the other clutching Quinn's tightly.

We all cry openly before I whisper in a tortured voice, "And it's all my fault."

Quinn looks up at me then, and there's fire raging in her eyes. "Don't you dare say that. Santana Pierce-Lopez, don't you fucking dare say that."

"It's true." I whisper brokenly, sliding down the length of the wall and landing with a thud on the ground. "I was so selfish. All I could think about was my job." I hear myself whispering, "It was the worst decision I had ever made in my life." I feel something die inside me and I add in a hollow voice, "Brittany can't even touch me."

Quinn bursts into another round of tears, this time burying her head in the material of Kurt's designer jacket.

"You see why this seems impossible to fix?" I say bitterly. "Either way, everything seems to indicate we can't stay together. That we shouldn't stay together. Our son fucking died because of us. Because of what we are. How can I still love my marriage if it's the reason I lost the best thing that's ever happened to me?"

* * *

><p>My sobbing is muffled by the pillow I've pressed to my face.<p>

I'm sitting on the staircase, listening to Santana tell our closest friends the truth of our son's death. As the words gush out of her mouth I'm brought back to the hallway, and I can see the memory playing very distinctly in my head. For a few agonizing minutes I'm trapped in my own personal hell.

Then I hear Quinn cry out, "Don't you dare say that. Santana Pierce-Lopez, don't you fucking dare say that."

Santana says something my ears can't pick up, and I hear Quinn start to sob again. I almost stand up and enter the living room to cry with them, but I'm interrupted by the sound of my wife's harsh voice, her words cutting deep wounds on my already beaten heart.

"You see why this seems impossible to fix? Either way, everything seems to indicate we can't stay together. That we shouldn't stay together. Our son fucking died because of us. Because of what we are. How can I still love my marriage if it's the reason I lost the best thing that's ever happened to me?"

My entire world seems to slow down and freeze. For a minute I feel hypersensitive to everything around me: the dust floating in the air, the light shining on the surfaces of the wall, the depressions on the wooden floor beneath my feet, the gasps originating from the living room. Everything seems so painfully and precisely crystal clear, and I suddenly realize what I have to do.

I stand up softly, leaving the pillow on the stairs. I make my way gently to the kitchen, and noiselessly pull open a drawer. The air all around me begins to whisper Santana's words around me: '_How can I still love my marriage if it's the reason I lost the best thing that's ever happened to me? How can I love my marriage? How can I love? How can I…how can I...'_

I find the object I'm looking for and stare at it for a long moment. I caress the sharp edge, and watch as the skin at the tip of my fingers split and blood begins to seep out. I want to feel doubtful. I want to feel hesitant. But all I feel is an odd peace, a resignation. After all, I'd thought about this a lot in the past few months. Dimly, I think about how ironic it is to have it end like this. I'd be going the same way he did. Silently, I make my way back upstairs, trailing blood all over the floor.

"Brittany?" I hear Quinn gasp behind me. Her voice is still laced with tears, and I say nothing as I continue up the stairs. "Oh my God, Brittany, are you bleeding?" There's a horrified pause. "Is that a knife?"

There's a commotion in the living room as I hear the four of them race to reach me. I run into our bedroom, before slamming the door shut and locking it.

"Brittany!" I hear Kurt screaming, pounding on the door. "Oh God. Brittany, listen to me. Please open the door."

I turn away from his tortured cries and lay the knife down as strip. Then I pick it up as I walk into the bathroom and lock that door, too. I step into the shower and turn on the water, relishing the feeling of it beating against the crown of my head.

I hear the loud snap or the doorway breaking as someone crashes into the room. "Brittany!" Puck is yelling outside the bathroom door. "Whatever you're thinking about doing, don't do it."

Quinn's voice is also mixed into the hysteria. She's screaming something like, "Britt, baby, this is not the answer. Please, let us help you. We can help you." Kurt's saying something too, but they're all yelling at the same time and it's difficult to understand with all the words flying around together. So I shut it out.

I take the knife in my hand and slash my left palm swiftly.

I can't even feel the pain. I wonder briefly if Nicholas felt any pain, during those last few moments. Was I the last thing he saw, the last thing he heard? Did he recognize my arms around him, my tears washing his face? Did he forgive me for failing him? For not being there sooner? For not taking the blow of the knife? I don't know. I'll never know.

The door barges open, and through the steam I see the four of them standing at the doorway. For a minute I feel embarrassed to be seen like this – bleeding, naked, _vulnerable_ – but the odd calm feeling returns and the thoughts wash out of my mind. I grasp the handle of the knife and prepare to drive it into my stomach.

Then I hear her voice.

"Brittany, listen to me, please. Don't do this."

The knife stills before the delicate skin of my abdomen. A broken sob breaks from my mouth, but I don't move from my position. To die to the sound of Santana's voice. I don't think there were would be any better way to go.

Her voice is shaking as she continues, "If you do this, there will be nothing left for me in this world. Do you hear me, Britt? Nothing. You won't just be killing yourself. You'll be killing me."

I sob noiselessly.

"I'd rather die than have you leave me, Brittany. Don't do this." She pleads. I look at her as she takes a few steps closer, until she's close enough for the water to wet her clothes. There are tears shining in her eyes, and her lips are trembling.

Still, I remain motionless.

"If you do this," She whispers, standing so close now that I could reach out and kiss her, "If you're sure about doing this, then let me go first."

She holds her hand out to take the knife from me. "Come on." She whispered. "Let me go first then you can follow. Because there's no way on this earth that I'm letting you leave me. You should know by now that whatever happens, if you're leaving, I'm leaving with you."

The thought of Santana dying is pure agony. I can't even begin to fathom the idea. I don't want to. It didn't matter if she no longer loved me, or if she no longer loved what we used to have. I still love her, and I can't stand the thought of having her die.

Swallowing thickly, I let my fingers go slack and feel the knife slide from my fingertips.


	6. Reaching Across the Great Divide

**I think I did manage to tone down the angst significantly for this chapter.**

**Do tell me what you think. Your opinions count. :)**

**PS. shameless promotion. The author of this piece is a good friend of mine, and I enjoy reading this story: **.net/s/6884590/1/War

**Setting Rain on Fire**

**Chapter Six: Reaching Across the Great Divide**

"_Are you listening? I need you now."_

_The Great Divide, Emmy Rossum_

This flight to Lima is one of the longest trips I've ever taken in my entire life.

It's not just the long hours that have me riled up. Just the thought of going back to the place where it all began freaks the hell out of me. But as I glance to my right and see Brittany staring out the airplane window, I accept – albeit grudgingly – that it's all for the best.

It's been four days since the bathroom incident. As soon as Brittany dropped the knife on the ground, Quinn had rushed in, towel in hand. Kurt had turned off the water while Puck had taken the blade off the floor. Then Quinn, in a haze of panic, had screeched incessantly, demanding that we take Brittany to the emergency room, since the blood was still gushing from the deep cut on her left palm. Brittany didn't want to go, but when I cupped her cheek gently with my hand, she had closed her eyes and given in.

I look at her left hand and see the bandage there. Seven stitches. That's how many the doctor told me she needed, before he pulled me aside and whispered to me about psychologists, and depression, and SSRIs, and therapists, among other things. I had stiffened at the conversation, and he could tell that all his recommendations were falling on deaf ears.

"At least consider taking her away." He cried out exasperatedly.

I had frowned then. "Excuse me?"

"Go for a break. Apply for a sabbatical. Take a vacation. Anything. Just don't keep her here, it's obviously not working for her." He hesitated before adding in a low tone, "And I honestly think it isn't working for you, either."

I had frozen at the spot and watched as he turned around to attend to another patient's family. I wanted to ignore his advice, but I knew he was right. Everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours all built up to the inevitable conclusion that Brittany was hurting in many ways that I wasn't, and I needed to be there for her. I needed to be there for her, even if every single moment of it would intensify the guilt I felt pressing heavily on my shoulders. Especially now, after what Brittany had tried to do in our bedroom bathroom.

My eyes slide from Brittany's bandage to the gold band on the fourth digit of her hand, and my heart clenches painfully. The ring was supposed to represent a promise. It wasn't a just symbol signifying commitment; it was a promise of love, trust, security and protection.

We haven't reached eight years yet and I've already failed.

My eyes close when I feel tears threaten to fall. A lump grows in my throat, and I swallow painfully against it.

"Santana?" I hear her whisper beside me.

My eyes open quickly and I turn my face towards her. She's still staring out the window, but something about her expression makes me feel as though she isn't really seeing the view of the night sky.

"Yeah?"

She bites her lip briefly before asking, "What are we doing?"

_What are we doing?_ My mind echoes. _We're trying to stop everything from falling apart completely. We're trying to salvage the pieces that are left scattered all over the floor._ My mind races ahead of me and I hear myself thinking softly, _But more importantly,_ _I'm trying to help you because I can't help myself. I'm trying to help you because it's the only good thing I can do in this world. I'm trying to save you because it's the only way the guilt can be reduced – even if it's just momentarily._

But I know that Brittany's still vulnerable, and that my words carry much importance. So instead I take a deep breath and respond evenly, "We're going home, B."

I hear her breath hitch and I panic for a few seconds. I replay my response in my mind and re-evaluate it. What did I say? Was it too much?

Then she turns to me, her eyes brimming with tears, and she replies, "You haven't called me that in a really long time."

My stunned mind is still formulating a reply when the speakers come to life and a flight stewardess announces the number of minutes before the landing. Then Brittany tears her gaze away from me and begins fixing the things scattered around her, and I have no choice but to do the same.

The airport isn't that crowded, and I'm relieved because it means there isn't going to be that much competition getting a cab. I thrust my hands into my pockets, looking for the piece of paper where Quinn had written down the name of the hotel.

Initially, when I had asked for help to find us a hotel, she had given me a questioning look, and I had told her quite plainly that Brittany didn't feel like staying over with relatives. Quinn had nodded thoughtfully, then flipped open her phone to make the necessary calls.

We arrive in the hotel around twenty minutes later, and a porter assists me as I unload our luggage while Brittany talks to the front desk.

As soon as we arrive in our suite, Brittany turns to me and says tiredly, "I'm going to sleep."

I make a sound of acknowledgement, and I watch as she heads for the bedroom.

Sighing, I begin opening bags and pulling out things. I begin with the necessities, like toiletries and clothes. But it isn't thirty minutes later when I hear moans coming from the bedroom.

As though on autopilot, I put down the objects in my hands and walk towards the bedroom. I open the door softly and make my way over to the bed. I turn to face her in the darkness, and I watch as her expression contorts and her head moves from side to side.

My heart breaks when I realize I have absolutely no idea what to do. I never dealt with Nicholas's night terrors. I was always the one who sang him to sleep, but it was always Brittany who would dart out of the room in the wee hours of the morning and calm him back to sleep after nightmares.

I close my eyes and try to think back and remember what my mother would do when I would have nightmares as a child. With a slight pang I remember that my parents had never really helped. So I try to recall what I would do whenever I had nightmares, and with a jolt I realize what needs to be done.

* * *

><p>I'm back in the hallway again.<p>

I can see the two figures at the edge of the narrow corridor, and I know that I need to get there before my son receives his death blow. I know that I've got to change this moment. I'm ready to make all the sacrifices I need to make. I'm prepared to die just to change this moment.

I try to push myself forward but I can't move. I look down and see that my feet are fastened to the ground with chains. I struggle with all my might because I've got to get there; I've got to change how this all turns out.

But the more I struggle, the tighter the chains get, until finally I watch as the knife enters my son in one swift movement –

Then all of a sudden, I can move again, and I'm cradling a body growing colder each second and I'm drowning in red and it's so cold, it's so cold, so cold –

I feel a warmth press gently at the side of my face, and my eyes fly open. My clothes are damp with sweat, and there are tears sliding down my face.

"Come back." I hear Santana's voice murmuring to me in the darkness. "Brittany. Come back." Her thumb is gently running up and down my cheekbones, wiping away the tears. "It's alright. I'm here. Come back to me."

I feel my eyes water even more as I recognize the line her soothing voice is repeating over and over. It's the same line my mother used to tell me after nightmares, the same line I used to murmur into Santana's ear when her fears leaked into her dreams, the same line I would whisper into Nicholas's hair when he, too, began to have trouble sleeping at night. My heart swells.

I feel Santana's arms find their way around my body, and she pulls me closer to her until my head rests against her collarbone. And despite the horrible circumstances I feel a warmth break over me softly, because I can't believe she's actually touching me again. Just as always, she's found the strength to cross the great divide when I couldn't.

"Do you want to talk about it?" The question is almost too soft, and a little bit too hesitant, but it doesn't matter because she's asking it.

I shake my head slowly, too lost in the moment to think about anything else. Because right now, I can almost pretend everything's alright. I feel so content it's a wonder my heart hasn't exploded. For now, all I need is this.

Her fingers lightly pass through my hair just as she begins to hum his favorite lullaby to me, and I drift into a dreamless sleep.


	7. Save Me Part One

**First of all, the reviews and comments. Thank you very much. The only reason I keep on finding the inspiration to write this story is because of all the wonderful things you've been saying. To everyone who's shed a tear, or felt like shedding tears, I know how you feel. Every time I write a new chapter, I'm just sobbing inside.**

**And even if you haven't been saying anything, I love the constant Story Alerts I receive, all the hits and stats. This is my first time writing fanfic, and I'm just blown away.**

* * *

><p><strong>Setting Rain on Fire<strong>

**Chapter Seven [Part One]: Save Me**

"_I've always loved you, and I'll say it still. I've always loved you and I always will."_

_Wedding Bells, Coldplay_

When I wake up, the only thing that remains of the night is Brittany's scent lingering on my skin. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and groan. Rubbing my eyes, I look at my wrist watch to see the time. It's barely even five am.

I roll my shoulders once and call in a hoarse voice, "Brittany?"

When I heard no response, I felt nervousness grow slowly in my gut. I stand swiftly and repeat in a clearer voice, "Brittany?"

I hold my breath to clear out all other forms of sound. I hear a hushed voice coming from the suite's balcony, and I walk silently towards it. Although she's sitting on the floor at an angle that's got her back to me and there's a glass door dividing us, I realize that she's on the phone. Inching closer, I hear bits of the conversation she's having.

"– asleep." I hear Brittany saying. "Yeah, I know. I will, later." She begins to idly trace patterns on the floor, before looking towards the horizon. "Thanks for telling me. Yeah it's okay, I've got to go too. It's almost sunrise." She pauses for a moment, then says with a slight sigh, "Yes, I know. Thanks." She clears her throat for a moment. "Yeah, I, uh, love you too."

And it stings so bad, because she's saying those words for the first time in months and it isn't to me. My gaze lowers, and I don't see her close her phone slowly, before sitting straight and pulling her legs towards her. When I look up again she's got her eyes are set in a point in the far horizon, and she's completely still.

When the first rays of the sun land on her skin, I hear myself gasp softly because she looks stunning; it almost looks likes she's shining. Almost as though she was a reflective surface, and the light from the sun was bouncing off every single inch of exposed skin. I feel my hands press against the glass of the balcony door, my forehead pressing against the cool surface as I watch her watch the sun rising. She looks golden. I'd forgotten how beautiful she was.

Just as the sun hits a high point in the sky, I see tears slowly make their way down her cheeks, and my heart contracts painfully. My hand drifts to the handle of the door and I pull the glass aside and move towards my wife.

"Hey." I whisper softly. She turns to me, surprise brushing across her face.

"Hey." She says back, giving me a small half-smile as she gently wipes the wetness on her cheeks. "Didn't know you were already up."

I shrug slightly, the memory of the phone call lingering in my mind, before folding my legs and sitting down beside her. Her gaze moves back to the sky and she breathes, "It's kind of really pretty."

I spare a quick glance at the sky. "It is." I agree lightly, turning back to her. I see a single tear roll down her cheek and I add softly, "Hey, you alright?" The minute I say them, I wish I could take the words back into my mouth and swallow them whole. What a stupid question.

To my surprise, she sniffs and whispers, "I just… I remember. He used to really like seeing it."

My mind empties, and I'm completely caught off guard. My body reacts automatically, and before I can stop myself, I feel my arms would around my chest because it suddenly hurts to breath. I avert my gaze and begin to blink rapidly to dispel the tears threatening to fall. "He did." I agree shortly in a tight voice.

Brittany looks at me, and her gaze is so tender and sad that I have to look away. "San." She whispers hoarsely.

Some part of me is screaming not to, but I turn to meet her eyes anyway. Her cheeks are wet again, but this time she makes no effort to brush the tears away.

"Why him?"

My throat tightens unbearably. Tears, silent and unapologetic, fill my eyes. I want to have answer. I've never not had one before. I want to take her hand and give it a reassuring squeeze, saying something along the lines of, "It was his time," or "God decided to make him an angel," But I can't tell her that because I won't mean it; I don't believe it. So instead I take a quivering breath and blurt out, "I'm sorry, Britt. I don't know."

She nods numbly while the tears streak over her face. She turns her head toward the sky again, and I follow suit.

We watch the sun shining in the sky for a few minutes, before she takes a relatively steady breath and whispers, "There's something I think I want to do today."

A few hours later, after having showered and eaten, we're trudging towards our old grade school. The sun is high in the sky and I feel sweat pricking the back of my neck. The entire trip so far has been awkwardly silent. All I want to do is wrench my mouth open and talk to her, but no matter how many times I try, I can't seem to. Bitterly, I acknowledge in my head that sometimes the greatest distance in the world is between two people.

"There's something I need to tell you." Brittany murmurs so softly I almost don't hear her. My heart skips a beat then drops to the pit of my stomach, while fear and panic race in my veins. In my head, a series of worst-case scenarios explode like fireworks: _she can't stand to be with me, she blames me for everything, she wants a divorce, she's going to leave me, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God._

She opens her mouth, and I hold my breath as I wait for her to continue. Her face looks so crushed and her eyes are so downcast. Then she shakes her head, sighs and says, "I can't right now. Maybe later."

Completely bewildered, I swallow and say apprehensively, "Okay."

She stops walking then, and I turn forward and realize we've arrived at our destination. We stand outside the school campus for a minute, before she walks on to go to the area where the playground should be. I follow timidly behind her.

"San." I hear her breath in amazement, and my head snaps up.

I see what she's looking at and my breath catches.

The swings where we first met are still here. Years ago, when the school had undergone renovation, I was informed that the playground would be depleted and updated to match this generation's taste in recess activities, so it was heartwarming to see it still there, where we left it. It was like it was waiting for us.

Brittany doesn't hesitate. She practically runs over and jumps into the seat she always used to call 'mine!' I find myself smiling slightly at the sight of her looking excited. I walk over to the slide beside her.

As soon as I sit, she draws the seat back as far as she can, and I watch her fly into the air. For a few minutes I'm transported back to my youth, and I can see Brittany squealing as a child, completely unafraid of the heights, exhilaration set firmly on her face. A myriad of emotions crash through me in a great wave, but one stands out in particular: determination. I suddenly feel intensely determined to make sure that one way or another, I will make her that happy again.

"It's almost like being a kid again." She says, as she digs her shoes into the ground to stop the swinging motion.

"That's good." I comment, nodding slowly.

"I suppose." She replies thoughtfully, after a moment. "One thing is missing, though." She says it almost shyly.

"Yeah?" I ask, trying to think back on our childhood memories to recall what that might be. I look at her curiously.

"Yeah." She takes a deep breath then turns to look at me, the expression on her face indecipherable. After a long moment, she lifts her right hand to me, pinky finger extended.

I can't help myself. I burst into tears.


	8. Save Me Part Two

**Setting Rain on Fire**

**Chapter Seven [Part Two]: Save Me**

"_And all of our tears will be lost in the rain,_

_when I find my way back to your arms again._

_But until that day, you know you are the queen of my heart."_

_Queen of My Heart, Westlife_

Santana's crying.

I watch her, at a complete loss. My mind goes on overdrive as I try to figure out why she's sobbing so intensely. I replay the conversation in my mind, but nothing I've said seems particularly hurtful or overly sentimental. The only conclusion I can reach is that she's crying because I'm offering her my pinky.

Hurt floods through me until I'm drowning in it. Maybe she really doesn't want to touch me. Maybe everything that had happened last night was just a dream. Maybe I didn't really fall asleep in her arms after all. I begin to pull my hand back, working hard to keep the hurt out of my face, but just as abruptly as she started crying, she stops, and gasps, "No!" and lunges forward to grasp my pinky in hers.

The two digits wound around each other so naturally it feels like a crime to have kept them apart for so long.

The force of her lunge is so quick and strong that I stumble backwards, and before I know we're a mess of tangles limbs and swing ropes. Her grip on my pinky is so tight I'm sure I won't be able to move the finger for a few hours. I try to wriggle the finger slightly to relieve the pressure, but her grasp only tightens and she growls in a voice that almost sounds possessive, "No." She stands and yanks me to my feet. Her movements are so frantic that it's almost frightening, and all the while I'm getting more and more certain that I'm going to lose my pinky with the force she's gripping it with.

"San," I begin cautiously. She ignores me and begins to walk towards the exit of the school, pulling me along with her. "San." I repeat, raising my voice.

"I can't, I just can't." She blurts out furiously just as we reach the exit. She looks at me for a moment, and I see that there are more unshed tears lingering in the corners of her eyes. Then she continues to walk onwards, reaching the middle of the road.

"Santana." I say firmly, stepping in front of her. "What's wrong?"

She sucks in a deep breath and holds it for several seconds. I can tell that she's trying to calm herself down. Her head bows down and I watch as the asphalt beneath our feet gets wet with her tears. There must be something I can do to tell me what's wrong.

"San." I repeat in a much gentler voice, trying to coax her into looking at me. When she shakes her head slowly back and forth, I whisper, "Babe, what's wrong?"

The endearment makes her lift her gaze from the ground to my face, her eyes wide. I kick myself mentally when I realize that I haven't called her that for the longest time. Sadly, I become conscious of the fact that somewhere along the way we seemed to forget how to treat each other.

She swallows visibly and she takes a deep breath.

"You were on the phone this morning."

I feel immobilized for a minute. I know what she's talking about, and just as I mentioned, I'm not sure yet if I am ready to hold this conversation. But more importantly, I don't know if she's ready to handle all the details.

But at the same time, I know she deserves to know the truth.

"Yes." I reply evenly, reaching out and taking her other hand. She doesn't back away when I grasp both her hands in mine, but she doesn't exert any effort to hold them back, either. Briefly, I wonder what assumptions she must have jumped to: did she think I was seeking comfort elsewhere? Did she think I was going behind her back? Did she think I was hiding something from her? Did she think I was cheating?

I gaze as earnestly as I can into her face. In the few seconds it's taken for me to weigh my options, I've decided not going to give her any information she isn't going to ask for. I know that she's having a hard time putting on a brave face when she's crumbling with fear inside, but this is also difficult for me. It isn't easy telling people you love things that will break their heart.

"Who was it?"

I pause. I certainly hadn't expected her to jump straight into this question. I look at her seriously for a moment. "Quinn."

Her face is completely blank for a moment, then confusion sets in. "Wh-what?"

I open my mouth to respond when a voice interrupts with a deep, "Excuse me."

Startled, Santana and I look to the source of the voice, a policeman standing nearby. We had both forgotten we were in the middle of the road. A few families were watching nearby, their looks wary. From the corner of my eye I see a few of them pointing to the intertwined hands between our bodies.

"Yeah?" Santana asks coolly, every inch of her face a hard mask. My heart drops significantly; she's back behind her defenses.

"Don't mean any disrespect… ehm, Ma'am," he coughs slightly at this, "but we're afraid some of the parents were worried about…" he shuffles slightly, looks at our intertwined hands and coughs again, "public indecency."

I don't have the slightest idea what he's talking about and neither do I care, but Santana's face grows fiery red and she releases one of my hands – the left one – to point at the policeman and retort in a voice shaking in anger, "Public indecency? Are you fucking kidding me? Do you even know what that means?"

The policeman retreats one step but replies, "I'm sorry Ma'am, but I'm just responding to the 911 call."

Santana drops my other hand to turn her entire body in his direction. Her eyes have become dangerous slits, and her hands are clenched into tight fists. I'm about to call her name and pull her away before any real damage can ensue, when a lazy drawl joins in.

"Hey, hey." My head whips to the opposite direction to see three teenage boys moving towards us. "Mind if we join in, officer? I thought it was public service to share."

Somewhere in my mind I know that these boys are just kidding, but their presence makes me feel incredibly uncomfortable, and I feel adrenaline pumping fast and hard into my body. Coupled with the memory of the phone call I'd received early this morning and what I'd learned from it, the situation was appearing far more threatening than it probably was.

There were only two ways to react to all this. I could tell from the way Santana held her head high and set her jaw that she had already chosen how she was going to respond.

Fight or flight.

My feet are running before I can even think about it.

* * *

><p>Everything had happened so fast. Initially it was just Brittany and I, on the verge of discussing something serious, then there was this law enforcement idiot, then these three punks. I was prepared to handle everything the way I always handled situations like this: kicking, punching and biting.<p>

Then Brittany had taken off.

I didn't exactly understand what was happening, but I was sure as hell not going to let her disappear into the unknown developed corners of Lima. So I had yelled her name and ran after her, but she had a staggering head start and was running faster than I expected her to.

It hadn't taken that long for me to lose sight of her.

I was crouching a few blocks away from McKinley High, gasping for breath, when my phone began to ring in my pocket.

"What?" I snap as soon as I flip the cover open.

"Hello to you too." I hear the voice on the other end reply unperturbedly. My spine straightens with a painful snap when I recognize the voice.

"Quinn?" I blurt out. Then I begin yelling. "What the fuck is going on? You called Brittany? Before fucking dawn? What the fuck, Q?"

"Santana." Quinn says in a voice obviously meant to soothe.

"Don't you fucking baby me, Quinn. I'm not one of your daughters."

"Then stop acting like one." She counters.

The wind slips from between my lips and I drop to the sidewalk.

"You wanna talk about it?" She asks me after a few quiet moments.

"Not really."

"So will you let me tell you what exactly happened before you let your imagination run away with you?"

I heave a sigh. "Get on with it, bitch."

"They caught Nicholas's killer."

My lungs lose the capacity to absorb oxygen and I feel dizzy after a few seconds.

"Santana? Are you there? Are you alright?"

I make a strangled sound, forcing myself to stay conscious.

"I guess Brittany wasn't able to tell you yet."

I find myself shaking my head to try to clear away the lightheadedness. Quinn takes advantage to tell me the details. Identity, check: Taylor Linwich. Age, check: seventeen. Evidence against him, check. Apparently when he had jumped through the window to escape, he had torn open his sleeve and nicked his arm. The forensic team had almost missed the small pieces of evidence on the shattered glass, but refined scientific techniques were able to separate and successfully identify the DNA left. When they got him in the interrogation room, they managed to corner him and wrench a tortured confession out.

She finishes her explanation with enthusiasm, but I found myself unable to respond.

"Can you hear me, Santana? They caught him."

I breath in deeply through my mouth. "It won't bring my son back."

There's a pause, then I hear the static-filled sound of Quinn sighing into the phone.

"I know." She says softly.

"And he's a minor." I add angrily, punching the nearest flat surface and swearing internally when the skin over my knuckles scrapes. "So no actual jail time. This is pathetic."

"I know this is hard for you, Santana." Quinn says gently.

"No," I snap. "You have no idea. You have absolutely no fucking idea. You don't know what it feels like to lose someone you love."

There's another silence before she replies evenly, "Yes, I do."

For the second time in the conversation I feel the wind knocked out of me as I remember Beth. I slap my palm against my head and whisper, "Oh, God, Quinn. I'm so sorry."

"It's okay. I know you have it harder than I do." She pauses. "Where's Brittany?"

I groan inwardly. "I'm just about to go and find out."

"Did you lose her?"

"Something like that." I admit.

I hear Quinn chuckle. "It's alright. You know Brittany better than anyone else does. I'm sure that if you thought hard enough you'll know exactly where to find her."


	9. Not Myself

many thanks to all the people who take time to review. :) i appreciate it. i hope you enjoy this chapter. let me know what you think.

**Setting Rain on Fire**

**Chapter Eight: Not Myself**

"_I need you more than you'll ever know. I still do, willing to let it show."_

_Silence, Aly & AJ _

* * *

><p>I snap the phone shut with a loud snap. For a short moment I just sit on the ground, thinking the information through. It's a struggle to sort through my emotions. I have no idea how I feel, or how I should be feeling. Vengeful? Relieved? Angry? Murderous? I think all I feel is hollow.<p>

A car horn blares and I'm pulled out of my muddled thoughts.

_Brittany._

I jump to my feet, shoving my phone into my pocket. I continue walking the direction I was initially headed, towards McKinley. In my mind I'm sorting through memories, creating a mental list of all the places where she might have disappeared off into. _The duck pond?_ She still can't stand the sight of ducks. _BreadStix?_ That would be my go-to place, not hers. _Her parents' house?_ What for, they're not there anyway.

McKinley High comes into view and I pause for a moment to sweep my eyes over it. There are so many memories here, both horrible and precious. This is the place where I once felt imprisoned in my own skin. But this is also the place where I learned the freedom of loving completely – and joys of being loved back.

And I realize Quinn was right. I do know where she is.

I walk slowly. The hallways feel familiar and strange at the same time. The lockers have been replaced, and the walls repainted. But I don't lose my way; I don't even make a wrong turn. My feet know exactly where to take me.

The door to the choir room is open, and I can see her. She's sitting on a worn out chair by the grand piano, leaning against it while idly tracing in the dust. The words 'sad panda' rush into my mind.

"Hey Britt." I call out softly, walking into the room. Her head lifts and turns to my direction. She stares at me for a few minutes, her expression slightly dazed.

"You found me." She breathes. I walk over to her, pulling over a chair and taking her hand lightly in mine.

"Yeah, I did." I pause. "Are you alright?"

She nods absentmindedly for a while, then adds, "I was getting a bit worried. You took really long."

I feel guilty for a moment. "I'm sorry. Quinn called."

She looks at me sharply, gripping my hand. "Did she tell you?"

I nod in response. She looks down again, staring at the pattern she had formed over the piano. A lean slightly to get a better view of it, and my heart contracts painfully when I realize they're letters.

_Nicholas_

* * *

><p>The choir room feels a bit like home.<p>

Especially now that Santana's here, holding my hand in hers in the silence. I want to apologize for not telling her earlier about the phone call, and for leaving her the way I did, but she's staring at the letters I've written on the piano lid, a distant look in her eyes.

So instead I pull her close towards me, tightening my grip on her hand. She says nothing.

"I wish," I begin tentatively, "I wish we could have brought him here."

I feel her tense against me, but I just hold her even closer until she relaxes again. She inhales slowly. "Yeah? Why's that?"

I shrug slightly, and she turns to face me. "So many things happened here. So much of who we are today is because of things that happened in this room." I look around the room and for a brief moment I see shadows of our past selves, surrounding us in smiles and tears and laughter. "It just feels kind of fitting, you know?"

She makes no response for a while, then nods thoughtfully. She turns away again, and whispers, "I wish a lot of things."

I feel tears forming in my eyes, because I know exactly what she means. I push my cheek to her shoulder.

"Sing to me." I say softly, already half wishing she didn't hear me. But I hear her breath hitch, and I know she has.

She gets up from the seat slowly and looks at me.

"Only if you dance with me."

I feel myself swallowing. Somewhere in my mind I realize exactly how much we're asking for from each other. She hasn't even hummed since the funeral, and I can't even nod to a beat.

I feel my head move up and down once before I can even think about it. She takes both my hands and pulls me gently to my feet, moving towards the open space in the middle of the room.

She turns to look at me, and takes a deep breath.

"_Suppose I said, I am on my best behavior?_

_But there are times I lose my worried mind._

_Would you want me when I'm not myself?_

_Wait it out while I am someone else?"_

I feel a lump forming in my throat, and I drape my arms around her shoulders and pull her closer. Her arms encircle my waist, and I feel her chin press against my shoulder, so she's singing directly into my ear.

"_Suppose I said, colors change for no good reason?_

_And words will go from poetry to prose?_

_Would you want me when I'm not myself?_

_Wait it out while I am someone else?"_

Slowly, we spin around the room. I feel my shoulder getting wet, and I realize she's crying. Just like I am. I pull her closer until space is nonexistent.

"_And I, in time,_

_Will come 'round._

_I always do._

_For you."_

She pulls back gently until she's staring me straight in the eye. She presses her forehead against mine and finishes softly,

"_Suppose I said, you're my saving grace?"_


	10. Twilight

**what the hell. whether or not it actually happens onscreen, Brittana is real for me, and that's all that really matters.**

**tell me what you think of the latest chapter.**

**Setting Rain on Fire**

**Chapter Nine: Twilight**

"_When violet eyes get brighter,_

_and heavy wings grow lighter,_

_I'll taste the sky and feel alive again."_

"_Oh, if my voice could reach_

_back through the past,_

_I'd whisper in your ears,_

_Oh darling, I wish you were here."_

_Vanilla Twilight, Owl City_

* * *

><p>"<em><strong>Do you believe in heaven?"<strong>_

It's been two days since our moment in the choir room. It's around six in the afternoon and we're sitting cross-legged in the balcony of the hotel suite, picking out random people from the streets below and creating ridiculous imaginary stories of their lives. Of course, Brittany's theories are far more creative than mine are: _"I bet that woman walking up the street is actually hiding cats under her sweater."_ _"That kid looks around eleven, do you think she got her Hogwarts letter yet?"_ and my personal favorite, _"Oh, look, San! Those two girls slook just we used to. Do you think they'll end up together like we did?"_ She was pointing to two girls who barely looked four. I just laughed.

Then a mother walks by, carrying in her arms a boy who would have been around Nicholas's age, and Brittany's face falls. She looks towards the horizon for a moment, deep in thought. When I reach out to lightly touch her arm, she asks me,

"Do you believe in heaven?" Her tone sounds casual and almost uncaring, but I can hear the quiet desperation in her voice. She wants to know what I think because she needs reassurance. And I don't know how to give it to her; we've never had this sort of conversation before.

"Heaven?" I repeat dumbly. She nods, turning to me. I take a deep breath and lean against the railings, closing my eyes to think.

"Well," I begin, and I feel her shift closer to me, "I never really thought about it before." She begins to lean away, and I can almost taste the disappointment radiating from her. I open my eyes and grasp her arm quickly. "Let me finish."

She looked surprised, but nods once and lays a hand over mine. "Go on."

I take a deep breath. "You know that I was raised in Catholic household." She nods again. "When I was young, I was taught to memorize things about spirituality. All I had to remember was to be good so I could go to heaven, and to avoid being bad so I wouldn't go to hell." I smirk slightly at the memory, before sighing. "But somewhere along the way I just sort of stopped really caring about it all. I used to go around thinking, did it all really matter? I was going to live only once, and I was going to live on my terms, not some deity's." I pause, and when I talk again, my voice lowers. "Initially, when we – " I gesture with my free hand at the two of us. "– happened, I kind of stopped caring completely. I remember thinking to myself that it would be ridiculous to believe in a deity who didn't value the love that you and I shared."

"Oh, San," I hear her whisper softly, but I hold up my free hand, and she falls silent.

I clear my throat. "One moment changed it all though." I look up at her and smile slightly. "Do you remember the day when…" I take a deep breath and summon all the courage I have, "Nicholas was born?"

She gasps, and her eyes widen. Her entire body seems to grow rigid for a minute, and I understand why. It hurts to hear his name. I can't believe I even managed to say it out loud.

When her body slumps down there are tears in her eyes, but she blinks them away and nods.

"You were so brave then." I whisper, leaning forward and taking her other hand, the bandaged one. "It killed me to see you in so much pain," I admit, swallowing with difficulty. "But you powered through it." In my mind I remember all those hours in labor, watching her struggle while I could do nothing. I feel the tears pricking my eyes but I fight them back. I need to be strong, even if it's just for this moment. She looks at me and urges for me to continue.

"I remember when the doctor first put him in your arms." I choke slightly. "You looked up at me and said, 'San, look. It's our son.'" I let out a shuddering laugh.

"I remember." Brittany gives me a teary smile, then adds, "You looked frightened for a while, like you were realizing for the first time that we were actually going to have a child. So I said, 'Come here.' Then you walked over."

"I was being such a guy." I snorted. Then I squeeze her hands lightly in mine. "You know the minute I started really believing in heaven?" I whisper. She shakes her head slightly. "It was the moment that I was right beside you in that hospital room. You had just gone through nine months of torture, eight hours of labor, and you still had the most divine smile on your face. You took my hand and pulled me closer, until we were both holding him in our arms. You looked at me then, and the look on your face was just so pure and beautiful that I realized there just had to be a heaven." I sniff slightly. "There has to be a heaven because you both belong in it."

* * *

><p>I give Santana a gentle smile, but I can't help from frowning slightly. "What do you mean?" I chastise softly, releasing one of her hands to graze her cheek with my fingertips. "You belong in heaven too."<p>

She lets out a broken sigh and pulls away from me, letting go of my hand. My frown deepens, and I grab her shoulders before she can move any farther away from me. "Hey." I say faintly. "San, look at me."

Shaking her head, she just tries to push me off. I tighten my grip on her shoulders, moving forward to push her downwards. "Santana. Tell me."

She gives up struggling, and keeps still for a few minutes, so I let go of her shoulders. Her eyes are shut tightly, but there are tears leaking from them anyway. I bend downwards and brush them away.

"I don't belong in heaven." She blurts out, opening to her to look straight at me. The look in her eyes catches me off guard: it's pained and sad. "I can't belong in heaven. I don't deserve to be in heaven."

"What are you talking about?" She lets out a quiet, humorless laugh and points at herself.

"Satan, remember?"

I give her a reproachful look. "C'mon. You don't seriously believe that."

She shakes her head again, and I catch her mumbling something that sounds like, "don't understand."

"What don't I understand?" I ask clearly, cupping her cheeks in my hands, turning her head to face me. "Tell me. I want to understand."

When completely she breaks down into tears, I almost feel frightened. I gather her into my arms and rock her back and forth until she calms down enough to whisper my name.

"Feel better?"

"Not really." She replies shakily.

"Please tell me." I plead. She looks at me then, and I see the conflict in her eyes. I gaze back as earnestly as I can, willing for her to let me in. Then the look in her eyes shatters and she reaches for me, wrapping her arms around my neck and pressing her face into my collarbone.

"I'm so sorry." Her voice breaks, the sound muffled.

"Why?"

"It's all my fault." She sobs. "Everything is my fault."

I don't know what to say, so I just rub her back, whispering comforting words over and over.

"I feel so sick." She mutters, shaking her head. "I make myself feel so sick. How can you still be here? The reason you're in so much pain is because of me. Fuck, Britt." She spat out vehemently, "The reason you tried to kill yourself was because of me."

I feel horror rush through me, white-hot and blinding. "Don't say that." I mutter.

"Why not?" She argues, pulling away again. "It's true." I make a move towards her but she's on her feet before I can stop her. She begins to pace back and forth agitatedly on the tiny area of the balcony. "Every single wrong thing that happened boils down to something I did, or didn't do."

"Santana." I begin, my mouth dry. "What happened in the bathroom wasn't your fault. I made that choice."

"And I didn't save you!" she snaps, kicking the railing. "I wasn't there for you. I couldn't handle any of it. I messed up. I ran away and left you to stumble in the god damn dark on your own." She slumps against the railing. "I fucked up."

"San." I stand, wrapping my arms around her waist and trapping her against the railing. I sigh against her shoulder. "Please listen to me." She starts to shake her head again but I continue forcefully. "It wasn't just you, alright? I shut down. I couldn't handle any of it, either. We both made mistakes."

She sniffs. "But it's my fault he's gone." She moans, sobs wracking her body. "I told him never to fight back." She's shaking so hard I have to hold her upright. "I told him never to fight back to any bully unless he was standing up for someone else." She begins to drop downwards. "And I was supposed to pick him up. If I wasn't so selfish about my job, if I wasn't so damn self-absorbed he'd still be here."

I clutch her tightly to me as she sobs brokenly at the sky. People can probably hear us from down the street, but I don't have a mind to care. I turn her around and press her face to my shoulder.

"Santana. The only reason you worked so hard at that job of yours was to make sure you could give our family the best lifestyle you could." I try to reason with her. When she makes no response, I add, "Well, isn't it my fault too?" I whisper into her hair. "If I left earlier I would have been there sooner."

"Workshop." Santana manages to blurt out despite her heavy breathing. If she doesn't calm down soon, she's probably going to start hyperventilating.

"Yeah, and who says that dance should have been more important than my son?"

She shakes her head again and pulls back. Her mouth is open and I can tell she's about to argue. "Santana." I say firmly. Then I sigh and press my forehead to hers. "I'm going to tell you a secret."

She swallows thickly, before nodding.

"Every single night, I revisit that moment in the school hallway." The image flashes in my mind, and I feel a tremor run through my body. "You know why?"

She makes a noise of denial in the back of her throat.

"Because I always feel like I have to change that moment." I admit softly. "Every night I'm back in the hallway and I think, 'If I had run a bit quicker,' or 'If I had arrived a bit sooner' everything would be different. But even in those dreams, there seems to be nothing I can do. No matter how hard I try, nothing changes."

The sky is darkening now, and I knew that if I tried hard enough, I would make out the first few stars blinking far in the horizon. But I ignore the view and gaze deeply into her eyes. "And one night I just realized that, maybe that was the point." I look down, fighting back tears, before I look up at her again. "There's just nothing that either of us can do to go back and change that moment – or any moment." I swallow and take a deep breath. "There's nothing we can do to change the past." The words feel like knives as they leave my mouth, but I know that they need to be spoken. "The only thing we can change is the future."

She releases a shuddering breath, then throws her arms around me and pulls me close. I wrap my arms around her as well and hold her as the light around us fades and the moon rises over the horizon.

Neither of us says anything else for the rest of the night, our pinkies intertwined between us as we stare up at the stars passing us by.


	11. Undiscovered Part One

Hello guys. :) This is part one of Chapter Ten. Pretty short, sorry about that.

**Chapter Ten [Part One]:** **Undiscovered**

It was difficult to move the next morning.

My body was sore in places that I had forgotten existed since leaving the Cheerios. The pain was aggravated when Brittany began to lean on me when she dozed off sometime in the early hours of the morning, leaving me to support her entire dead weight. I was relieved, though, when I realized that her exhaustion prevented her from having bad dreams. On the other hand, my position was so uncomfortable that it was impossible to get much decent sleep.

But it all became worth it when Brittany woke up just in time to watch the sunrise. She had laid her head against my aching shoulder, snaked her arm around mine, and whispered sleepily, "It's so beautiful, San."

When it was over, she had stood up shakily, motioning for me to follow her as she lead the way back into the bedroom and collapsed groggily on the bed. I wanted to follow, but I was literally too tired to sleep. So I shuffled towards the small kitchen area and made myself coffee.

Two hours later, after countless refills, I hear as Brittany makes her way out of the bedroom. She stumbles over something as she nears the smell of coffee, then slumps into the chair adjacent to mine.

"Good morning." I greet lightly, handing her a cup.

"Morning." She mumbles, yawning. She begins to sip the dark liquid slowly, before making a face at the cup. "Blegh." She sets it back on the table before turning to me and asking, "Did you get any sleep last night?"

"Not much." I admit.

She nods thoughtfully, her eyes clouding over for a moment. Then they clear again and she shoots me a piercing look. "How do you feel?"

I feel my throat tighten and I lose my breath for a moment. "I dunno." I finally reply, in a dry voice. "How do you feel?" I counter. She scrunches her face in thought for a moment.

"Different." She replies eventually. "Not better, but... different."

"Oh."

She looks back down at her cup before saying, "Do you want to talk about it?"

I want to say no. I'm still recovering from the conversation yesterday, and I'm exhausted – physically and emotionally. I don't know if I can handle another round of prying open bleeding wounds. It's difficult enough dealing with the pain on my own, I don't even know where to begin with expressing it. I don't want to talk about it because I know she's dealing with her own pain, something I know I can't even begin to comprehend.

I want to say no because it gives me the illusion – no matter how temporary – that maybe if I ignore everything, it will eventually fade away.

But I know I need to say yes.

Brittany seems to sense my internal battle and cautiously lays her hand on my shoulder. "I have an idea. Let's have breakfast out."

"Breakfast?" I echo dumbly, stunned.

"Yup." She nods, standing. "Then we'll ask each other questions about...how we feel. And if it becomes too much, all you need to do is say so, and we'll stop. How about that?"

I look at her gratefully before mumbling, "I have no idea what I'd do without you."

She looks surprised, and it makes me wonder how long it's been since I told her how important she was to me. I begin to feel guilty again, then she flashes me the million-watt smile I'd almost forgotten she had, and it's so bright that I feel blinded for a moment. Then she leans over and squeezes my fingers gently.

"Well," she says casually, lightly massaging the surface of my palms with her thumbs, "To be honest, I don't know what I'd do without you, either."


	12. Undiscovered Part Two

**This was a very difficult chapter to write. I think it's the first chapter where I actually really cried while writing.**

**I recommend that everyone listen to Kate Miller-Heidke's **_**The Last Day on Earth**_** while reading. (.com/watch?v=1GU8Ekk8Pbs)**

**As usual, tell me what you think. :) Thanks.**

**Setting Rain on Fire**

**Chapter Ten [Part Two]: Undiscovered**

"_All the things left undiscovered, leave me empty and left to wonder."_

_Undiscovered, Ashlee Simpson_

"_In my head, I replay our conversations, over and over till they feel like hallucinations. You know me, I love to lose my mind. __**Every time anybody speaks your name, I still feel the same. I ache, I ache, I ache inside.**__"_

_The Last Day on Earth, Kate Miller-Heidke_

* * *

><p>"Do you remember the first time he said 'Ma'?"<p>

My hands clench involuntarily, like I'm trying to grasp something that isn't there. Santana notices and reaches out quickly to lay a hand on my shoulder. I feel myself relax almost immediately, and warmth breaks over my body in gentle waves.

We're sitting on the bleachers of the old football field behind McKinley. We ended up here after having late breakfast in some diner on the corner of our hotel's block. I was planning to bring Santana to BreadstiX, but when I told her, she had paled – she had actually paled – and whispered that she didn't feel like going. I was confused at first, and it must have shown, because she whispered in an even lower voice, "He used to really love them."

And I understood. If I couldn't stand ducks, she couldn't stand BreadstiX. If it was still painful for me to dance, it was still painful for her to sing. It was simple, really. We'd lost parts of ourselves when he left, like jigsaw puzzles with missing pieces. I wondered sadly if we were ever going to get those bits of ourselves back.

The conversation had started as soon as we left the diner, and it began by going backwards. _"Do you remember…"_ was passed back and forth in the air between us, until both she and I were fighting back tears.

"It was spring." I whisper. "We were at the pond near the house."

"Visiting the ducks." She confirms, and even though I can't see it, I can tell she's smiling.

If I close my eyes, I can almost remember the moment perfectly. I feel my lips twitch involuntarily. "You fell into the pond."

She snorts. "Did not. You wanted a duck. I went in to get one."

I laugh softly, even as tears fill my eyes for the nth time. "Well, alright. You went in and fell." I turn my head to look at her. She looks indignant and amused, but when she meets my gaze I see that she wants to cry, too.

"At least I got the duck." She points out, her voice breaking slightly at the last word. I take the hand she's laid on my shoulder, squeezing it tightly.

"And when you got back," I'm whispering now, because if I spoke any louder she'd hear the pain in my voice, "he looked up at the duck in your hands and then at you."

"Then he looked at you and then back at the duck." Santana continues, blinking rapidly to stop her tears from falling.

"And he said, 'Ma.'" I finish, a lone tear sliding down my cheeks. It's almost amazing that I still have tears to cry.

She squeezes my hand tighter, and hesitates before murmuring, "He was talking to you, you know." She sniffs. "When he said 'Ma,' he was talking to you."

I feel like someone stuck a knife deep into my gut before twisting slowly. The words are difficult to get out but I manage to gasp them. "What do you mean?"

She gives me a watery smile. "You always were the better parent."

"San. No. Please. Don't say that." The tears are racing down my face now, and I feel my inside churning.

"It's true." She whispers sadly. "You remember when we were in the choir room a few days ago? I told you there are so many things I wish for. Being more like you as a parent is one of them."

I shake my head vigorously. "San, you were a great parent. He adored you, so, so much."

"How do you know that?" She whispers dejectedly to me. I hear the insecurity leaking into her voice, and it makes me want to absorb her into my body so she can drown in the assurance I want to give her. I swallow and take in a shaky breath.

"He looked up to you." I begin in the steadiest voice I could muster. "San, he wanted to be like you. One time when you left for work he told me he wanted to be a lawyer just like you when he grew up." I choke at the memory. "He admired you so much. You inspired him."

She sniffs and turns away, but she doesn't let go of my hand.

"Oh, babe." I whisper, reaching out and tracing her cheeks lightly. "He loved you."

For a minute neither of us says anything, then she mumbles, "Thanks."

She reaches for me, and I let go of her hand to wrap both my arm around her. I hold her tightly, before she pulls away gently. We're both silent for a moment, before I ask her softly, "What else do you wish?"

She gaze drops. "I wish I taught him how to ride a bike." She pauses. "You?"

I bite the inside of my cheek to stop me from crying out. Where do I even begin?

"I wish I took him kite-flying." is the first thing that bursts from my mouth. "Mary Poppins."

She nods slowly, sniffing again. "I wish I made time to take him to a planetarium. He loved outer space."

"Wish I saved up enough to buy him a telescope. So he could see the stars up close before he went to bed." I remember how he would always ask to look out the window one last time, so he could say goodnight to his friends lighting up the sky.

"Wish I'd taken a weekend off to build the tree house he wanted so much." She begins to sob, cradling her head in her hands.

"Wish I'd thought of taking him skydiving. He wanted to know what it felt like to fly." I remember how he'd squeal excitedly when I would lift him and spin him around the air.

She has a hard time catching her breath, but when she does she cries, "Wish I could go back and change all the times I said 'Later, honey' and 'Maybe next weekend' into 'Sure, let's do that right now.'"

I close my eyes, but the tears slip through my eyelids anyway. "Wish we'd done that paint explosion artwork thing he always talked about."

I feel her clutch my arm tightly as she struggled to breathe. I almost ask her if it's all too much, but before I can, she calms sufficiently to say shakily, "Wish we'd dedicated each summer to traveling to show him the wonders of the world."

"Wish I could have made him as proud of me as I was of him." I whisper after a quiet moment. She looks at me then, her grip tightening on my arm.

"He was."

I make a disbelieving sound, and she continues passionately, "Remember that time you were published in the LA Times? He cut out the clipping and went to school bragging to everyone that you were one of his moms. For two weeks."

I can't help from smiling at the memory, even it hurts so bad to remember it. Santana plunges on, "He was so proud of you, he had me frame the clipping and post it in his room."

I laugh shakily. There are still so many things I want to say, so many things I wish. And I know that Santana feels the same way. But there only seems to be one thought that summarizes everything, and I whisper it now. "I wish I could hold him one more time."

Santana throws her arms around me as sobs wrack my body. I hold on to her like I'm in the middle of a sea and she's the only solid thing for miles around. I hold on to her like it's the end of the world and there's nothing else I can do, because that what all this feels like. I hold on to her because everything else feels unsteady and ephemeral, and she is the only thing that's keeping me together. I hold on to her because when I do, it doesn't hurt as much.

Much later on, when I've calmed down enough to breath normally again, I hear her whisper into my shoulder, "I wish I could tell him how much I love him, just one more time."


	13. First Breath After Coma Part One

hated to cut it up, but decided to anyway. tell me what you think, your opinion counts.

**Chapter Eleven [Part One]: First Breath After Coma**

_Glosoli, Sigur Ros_

It's the light, pattering sound of raindrops against glass that wakes me up.

I roll over on the bed, burying myself back into the rumpled sheets. It takes me a few seconds to realize that such a movement should have sent me colliding into Brittany. My eyes fly open automatically, momentarily blinded by the sudden burst of bright light. My hands reach out for the body that isn't there.

"Britt?" I call out, sitting up so quickly that I feel dizzy for a moment. Shaking my head slightly, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. "Britt, where are you?"

I hear sniffing from behind the other edge of the mattress, and I rush over as quickly as I can. Brittany is there, curled up, her face buried in her arms. I drop lightly to my knees and move closer to her.

"Bad dream?" I ask, brushing my fingers through her hair.

She's unresponsive for a moment, before looking up at me and shaking her head. For a short moment I feel relieved: ever since our conversation in the bleachers three days ago, her bad dreams seem to have subsided significantly.

Hell, a lot of things seem to have changed since that talk on the McKinley football field.

"I don't like rain." She confesses softly, reaching forward to bury her face in my collarbone.

"Rain?" I repeat questioningly, my arms locking tightly around her, one hand stoking lightly down her back. I feel her nod against me.

"It reminds me of the funeral." She whispers, shivering slightly.

"Oh, honey." I sigh, resting my cheek into her hair. Her old 'set the rain on fire' request suddenly makes complete sense to me. "Is there anything I can do?"

She shakes her head, pressing herself even harder against me. I gather her closer to me, rocking her slowly back and forth as I close my eyes.

The sound of the rain continues to pound on the ground outside. A gust of wind intensifies the shower momentarily, and – involuntarily – the sound triggers an overwhelming avalanche of memories to crash down upon me unapologetically, till I'm buried in all the memories I've shared with Brittany and Lima rain. But only three stick out prominently.

Behind my eyelids, I picture Brittany as a nine year-old again. Its freezing and we're both getting drenched, but she's wearing the hugest grin I've seen as a child and it makes me feel all fuzzy and warm inside. She grabs my cold hands and yells over the steady hammering, "Let's dance!"

Then I remember the time we were twelve, trudging home from school, wet to the bone. I'm annoyed because it's just so, so cold, and there are still two more blocks to walk. Then her pinky tightens around mine and my face turns to hers. The raindrops flowing down her cheeks almost look like tears, but she looks so calm and serene, and the softest look is shining in her eyes. She reaches forward to cup my cheek in her palm, then she whispers in the lightest of whispers, "I love you, San."

And then I remember the most important one of them all. We're fourteen, and we're standing beside the duck pond. The spray comes in a flash, and we're completely caught off guard. I'm pissed off as hell because I'm wearing an outfit meant for a party, but Brittany just laughs and laughs at the expression on my face before throwing her arms around me and giggling, "Awww San, don't frown. Smile. You're so pretty when you smile." Then she pulls back slightly, keeping her face barely three inches from my face. And I can't help what I do next, because she's just right there, and it feels so right, and I've been dreaming of it for a long, long time –

"We had our first real kiss under the rain."

I hear the words leave my mouth before I even think them through. I feel Brittany stiffen against me, and I pull back to get a good look at her face.

"I remember." She mumbles, avoiding my gaze.

I cup her cheeks in my hands, forcing her to look straight at me. The thoughts are forming so quickly in my mind, justifications and rationalizations solidifying quicker than light travelling, urging me on, encouraging me to do what I'm about to do. "Do you trust me?"

"San." She says in a voice filled with the same panic that was visible in her eyes.

"Do you trust me?" I repeat, pulling us both to our feet, pushing her to an arm's length. My mind is set, and my body is just carrying out the motions on auto-pilot.

She whimpers slightly, and I see her hands ball into fists as she tries to muster courage, resolve, anything. "Yes." She whispers finally.

I feel a grin forming slowly on my face. "Then come on."

I turn and stoop to grab a jacket off the floor, throwing it towards her before she can say anything else. I rush to the closet and pull out a pair of sweatpants, jumping into them. She follows as I run into the living room, then stands back as I wrench the suite door open. She's hot on my heels as we dart through the hallways, before sprinting down the stairs into the hotel lobby.

She grows rigid when we stop in front of the hotel entrance, the rain outside clearly visible through the glass.

"Trust me." I whisper, extending my arm to briefly squeeze her fingers. Then I close my eyes and push open the door, running straight into the rain.


	14. First Breath After Coma Part Two

**Let me just say, I love this chapter. Like so much. Haha. :)**

**Thanks to all the people who reviewed, alerted, favorite-d. x) you make my day.  
><strong>

**I hope you guys like how it all fits in together. Don't forget to tell me what you think.**

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><p><strong>Chapter Eleven [Part Two]: First Breath After Coma<strong>

_Arrival of the Birds, Cinematic Orchestra_

The rain falls swiftly. It feels like knives slicing coldly into my skin. I stand paralyzed on the sidewalk, unable to move any further. Santana is in the middle of the street, face turned to the heavens and arms slightly outstretched. She does a little twirl, and the droplets of water fly from her like bullets. I close my eyes, willing myself not to freak out. The last time I stood under the rain, I watched as they filled my son's grave with soil.

"Hey." I hear Santana whisper. I open my eyes. She's standing right in front of me, her hand extended. "It's okay."

Her eyes glowing softly with the most tender and reassuring look I've ever seen, and it fills me with a feeling that I can only compare to the feeling of finding my way home. Warmth is spreading slowly through my entire body, and I feel like there's a light breaking through all the darkest corners of my mind. Instinctively, my hand finds its way into hers, and she applies the slightest pressure on it.

"Keep your eyes on me." She instructs me softly. Then gently and slowly, as though I'm the most delicate thing in the world, she guides me to the center of the street. When she stops, I slip slightly on the wet asphalt, but she lopes an arm around me and keeps me upright. "I've got you."

Our eyes meet and it's like everything just stops. Even the rain seems to halt in midair, and for a split second there's only a peaceful silence. And for the first time since Nicholas's death, I feel calm. I don't feel lost, or angry, or sad, I just feel completely at peace. Just as everything around me starts to move again, I feel a smile form on my lips and I whisper,

"San, I love you."

Her jaw drops open and I see the breath leave her body in a quick, white mist. Her eyes fill with tears, and she tightens her hold on me. A shaky smile appears on her face, and she commands in a tight voice,

"Say it again."

I feel my smile grow into a grin, and I press my forehead to hers. Then I say very slowly and distinctly, "Santana Pierce-Lopez, I love you."

She lets out a trembling laugh. "You have no idea how incredible it is to hear you say that."

"Then let me know." I wrap my arms tightly around her. "Tell me, so I know how incredible it feels, too."

She laughs out loud, and if sound had visualization, I'm sure her laugh would be a million bright colors exploding like fireworks. She throws her head back and yells into the open sky, "BRITTANY SUSAN PIERCE-LOPEZ! I LOVE YOU, TOO!"

It happens so naturally that I'm pretty sure it was just meant to happen. Santana looks back at me, her eyes glowing like embers. I pull her closer to me until we're pressed so tightly against each other that it hurts. Then our lips meet hesitantly, before molding into the perfect fit they've always been.

For a split second, it feels just like the first time. It's uncertain and sweet, as soft and fragile as butterfly wings.

Then the kiss intensifies and there's a desperate edge to it that I've never felt before. It begins to speak volumes of the things I don't talk about: all my fears and doubts and regrets and insecurities. Soon my tears are mingling with the rainwater, and it tastes of broken hearts and shattered souls and forgotten dreams.

She pulls away abruptly, stumbling slightly, gasping for air. Trembling, she cups both my cheeks and says in a low voice, "I've missed you so much."

I nod, my gaze blurred. I grasp her biceps and pull her to me again, but she resists and whispers, "Gently, babe. Gently."

I swallow tightly and nod again. Then she leans forward and brushes her lips once, twice, against my lower jaw, before bringing them back softly to mine.

I almost get swept away by the flood of emotions all over again, but her arms wrap around my waist and she whispers my name so softly and lovingly into my mouth, and something shifts inside me.

All of a sudden, the places where the rain hits my skin feels like it's on fire. The raindrops are so hot against my flesh that it feels like I'm being sterilized. Cleansed. Like an outer layer of my body is being washed away by the searing rain.

As she continues to kiss me, I feel more and more like I'm a phoenix in flames, burning until there's nothing left of me but the ashes promising rebirth.

When she pulls back again, smiling warmly as she lays her forehead against mine, I realize yet again that she hasn't failed me. Because at that specific moment, in those few minutes that will eventually mean nothing in the hands of time, it feels like she's just set the rain on fire.


	15. Carpe Diem

Dearest readers, to those who continue to read and to those who decide to review, comment, alert, favorite (and etc), you are the coals fueling my fire, and I dedicate this chapter to you. :)

[aaaannnddd, sorry this took so long]

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><p><strong>Chapter <strong>**Twelve**** [****Part****One****]: ****Carpe**** Diem**

_Dueling Guitars, Doug Smith_

I've always thought of Santana as beautiful.

In fact, it was one of the first thoughts I'd had when I first laid eyes on her ("Mom, look, she's _so__, __so __pretty_"). It didn't really seem to matter how old we were, the circumstances we were in, where we were going, who we were with, what we were going to do, or what she was wearing (though I'd never object to those delightful Cheerio skirts) – she was always, always beautiful to me.

She was the most alluring thing in my world, even on those days when she didn't feel beautiful at all. During those times in high school when she felt so small, so insignificant, so easy to look over, when she craved approval like it was oxygen – she was still the most amazing thing I had ever seen.

And now, after everything we've both been through, after all the experiences we've shared and the heartbreak we've endured, after all the important moments that are honestly really easy to forget, I still look at her with the same reverence I've always felt, the same reverence I'm convinced I will always feel.

Though there is one thing I have to admit. It's a bit silly, but out of all the instances that I've marveled at her alluring, exotic beauty, none of them can ever really quite compare to the simple sight of her sleeping.

Especially now, a day after our first kiss in almost five months, I find myself staring at her breathtaking face: her smooth, caramel skin, her adorable cheeks, the eyelashes that hide those captivating eyes, her cute nose, her naturally pouty lips. I love every single bit of her.

Though it's not just about the physical aspects of her exquisiteness that make me feel lightheaded with adoration. There's just something about watching the people you love while they sleep; to know that they trust you enough to be so vulnerable, to trust that you will watch over them while they leave this realm for a few hours to visit another one. Knowing how much she trusts me – how much she still trusts me – makes my heart swell with overwhelming emotion.

"Hey, babe." I whisper softly, tracing her cheeks. "I know you probably can't hear me," I run my fingertips over her eyebrows, "but I want you to know that I'm so glad you're here." I trace the bridge of her nose slowly. "That we're still together." I kiss the tip of her nose lightly. "We've both been through… a lot." I clear my throat, fighting the lump forming there. "And other people would have given up on each other." I sigh. "Hell, I think a lot of other people would have given up on me." I shift slightly on the bed, moving closer to her. "But you didn't. Even if I know you had doubts." I shut my eyes as I remember the conversation I'd overheard from the stairs back home. _How__ can __I __still __love __my __marriage __if __it__'__s __the __reason__ I __lost __the __best __thing __that__'__s __ever __happened __to__ me__? _"But I had doubts, too." I admit, opening my eyes again. "And I let those doubts get to me." I remember the glint of the knife in my hands, the flash of metal as it slashed through the flesh of my palm. "I felt like we'd lost sight of each other." I confess, my thumb tracing her lower lip. Her mouth opens slightly and her warm breath blows over my fingers. "I didn't know if we were ever going to find our way back to us again." I brush stray hairs from her forehead. "But we did." My voice breaks slightly. "And it makes me feel so much better, because now that we're a team again I know we can make it through together." I press a light kiss on her forehead. "I love you so, so much, San." I kiss a closed eyelid. "And I want to make sure that I live each day with you to the fullest." I brush my lips over the other eyelid. "Because at this point I know that the biggest regret I can ever have is not giving myself to you completely when I had the opportunity to." I smile as an idea begins to grow slowly in my head. "And I'm not going to waste any moment I'm lucky enough to share with you."


	16. Beautiful Chaos

Going through a tough time right now, so this update might not be that good. Consider yourself warned.

And, I'm terribly sorry about the late update. I'll try to make sure it won't happen again.

Tell me what you think.

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><p><strong>Chapter Twelve [Part Two]: Beautiful Chaos<strong>

"_Imma dance like I never danced, sing like I never sang, dream like I never dreamed."_

_Alligator Sky, Owl City ft. Shawn Chrystopher_

(A/N: because I secretly believe Brittany should sing Owl City on the show. His songs might sound random – and downright nonsensical sometimes – but they have incredible depth)

I've learned a hell of a lot of things living with Brittany.

Some of them I learned through subtle observation, like the top ten things you shouldn't do to a microwave oven, the proper ways to make a compost pit (and all the wrong ways to make one, too), the dance steps you absolutely must not do when in the presence of breakables, the places around the house where it was safe to put down a drink without having it spill all over.

Most of the things I've learned, though, are from direct interaction with my extraordinary wife. For instance, she has exactly five facial expressions that guarantee she's about to get her way. She has around one hundred smiles I know I will never be able to resist. Plus, there are around a million amazing, mind-blowing things she can do…when she's in the right mood.

But one thing I've learned that stands out more bizarrely and notably than others is the fact that Brittany is ridiculously imaginative and insanely innovative when it comes to getting me to wake up every morning.

I'd seriously thought we'd been through it all: the _wickedly_ sexy methods she'd utilized when we first started living together; the simple sweet things she'd do when we first got married; the loud routines she'd carry out when she was pregnant; the soft whispers I'd hear in my ear when Nicholas was born.

Whatever she did, she never really failed to get me up. But more importantly, she never failed _to be there_ to wake me up. In retrospect, this was one of the routine things she used to do that really made me feel how much she truly loved me. After all, she'd known since we were children how much I disliked mornings, and she'd do all she could to make them more bearable to me.

Until Nicholas was taken away from us.

Initially my internal system couldn't quite adjust to the loss of Brittany's morning tactics. The loss of her daily wake-up-San habits had hit me hard, until eventually I realized I had to learn to get up on my own, because she just wasn't motivated to. Gradually, I began to get used to waking up without her help, until I learned to forget about all the things she'd used to do every morning.

Which was why the sudden impact of something cold and viscous against my arm throws me straight out of unconsciousness.

It's a bit annoying. I was having the sweetest dream where I was surrounded by the heavenly sound of Brittany's voice. The details are rapidly becoming fuzzy, but I can remember her saying something about living to the fullest and not wasting any moment together.

_Splat._

I moan and throw a hand over my exposed right cheek, my fingers feeling the unfamiliar wetness there. I sit up when I see blue dripping from my fingertips down to the bed sheets.

"What the –"

_Splat._

"Britt!" I exclaim, my sight blocked off by startlingly bright yellow. I wipe it off my face with my clean hand. "What are you doing?"

"Painting." I hear her call out, her voice filled with laughter. "Mom was right; I should have taken those classes when I was a kid. It's a lot more fun than I thought."

Through the yellow haze I see her standing by the edge of the bed, a shining red lump in her hands. She throws her arm back like she's about to throw a baseball, and I roll my body to the edge of the mattress to avoid the attack. I hear the paint hit the pillow with a _thwack._

"Brittany!" I gasp. "We'll have to pay for that!"

Giggling. "So?" Red paint splatters all over my torso.

"No fair!" I growl, leaping to my feet and running for her. "Who says I get to be the canvass?" She dodges my grasp and runs out of the room, her laughter bouncing off the walls.

I pause in shock at the threshold of the suite's living room. For a minute I wonder if I'm still dreaming, because it looks like I've just walked into some winter wonderland: every single surface is covered in immaculate white. _What the hell?_

Then purple hits my cheek with astounding force. "Are you gonna just stand there like an open target?" I turn to my right. Brittany's standing there, open paint cans on the floor around her.

"How'd you get all the paint?" I ask slowly.

"I called the front desk and asked them to buy some."

"The white sheets?"

"Extra bedsheets, towels... you get the picture." She grins wickedly.

Paint trickles down my temple. A horrifying thought explodes in my head.

"Brittany." I begin, my eyes wide. Her grin slips off her face.

"What? Was it too much? Oh God, I'm so sorry. It's just, I wanted to surprise you. And I was thinking a lot about doing all the things we never really got to do –"

"Brittany." I interrupt. "Please, please tell me that's water-based paint."

Her gaze drops to the cans around her feet, and she lets out a low, "Oh." Then she bends down and dips two fingers in an open can of pink paint, before swirling excruciatingly slowly. At the sight, my mouth goes dry and my heart pounds loudly. Then she looks back up at me, her face slowly lighting up in an infectious, sly smile. "Does it really matter?"

Almost two hours later, practically all the colors of the rainbow are shining all around the suite living room. The walls are covered in streaks of blue and orange, with purple dots and red curves drying all over the floor. Even the ceiling hasn't been spared; there's yellow all over it. Flecks of green are on the sheet-covered furniture, with dark violet splattered across it carelessly.

But really, most of the paint is drying on human skin.

"It looks like paint bombs exploded here." Brittany smiles proudly. We're both sitting on the ground, looking around at our artwork. "We're really good artists."

"Yep." I grin, nudging her arm. "We make a great team."

She turns to me, her eyes twinkling. "We sure do." She squirms slightly and groans. "Though the paint's really itchy."

I laugh. "That's not my fault." She pouts adorably, and I reach out to pull her to me. She lets out a small sigh and leans her head on my shoulder. I lay my head on top of hers.

"San?" She calls softly after a quiet moment.

"Yeah?"

"I'm really glad we did this." Her voice is low, but each syllable echoes with so much sincerity it makes my heart expand with emotion.

"Me, too." I say, as evenly as I can.

"We haven't really done anything fun in long time." She adds silently. I feel her tremble slightly against me.

"I know." I murmur, closing my eyes.

The conversation skips a beat, then she shifts slightly to wrap her arms around my lower torso. Then she murmurs, "You know, I think he would have liked it."

Tears prick the back of my eyes, but I fight them back. I pull back to press a light kiss on the orange paint on her forehead. "Babe, he would have loved it."

She lifts her head and looks at me. Her face is a chaotic blend of dazzling colors, but all I see are the clear blue of her eyes, and it takes my breath away. They aren't lackluster or dull, or sad and tormented. Right now they're just wide and bright, and her gaze is lighting up my universe.

"I'll always be glad that Nicholas had your eyes." I admit, gazing deeply into the enchanting blue.

The corner of her mouth lifts. "Yeah, well. I'll always think he wore my eyes better than I did." She shrugs a bit, looking down.

"Regardless." I nudge her lightly. When she looks back up at me I whisper across the small distance between us, "You're so beautiful."

Despite the paint covering her cheeks up, I can tell she's blushing. She lowers her head, but I hook a finger under her chin and raise her gaze to me.

"Don't." I chastise softly, using my free hand to tuck stray blonde hair behind her ear. "I don't want to stop looking at you."

"San," She breathes, her eyes flickering to my lips. When she brings her eyes back to mine they're burning with a mesmerizing electric, blue fire.

"Yeah?" I whisper back, encouraging her on.

She licks her lips, and my heart literally stops pounding for a moment.

"I want to kiss you."

I grin. "What are you waiting for?"

She moves closer. Her lips are less than three inches away, and my hearts skips in excitement –

_Riiiiiiiiinnngg._

"Fuck." I hear myself snap, as we jump apart. I release a shaky, nervous laugh as the room telephone rings again. I look at Brittany, and she's glaring at the phone like she's willing for it to explode.

I laugh again, before reaching up and pressing a quick, chaste kiss to the corner of her mouth. "It's okay, babe. I'll answer that. You can go and get cleaned up first."

Her brow furrows. "San, can't you just ignore it?"

I smile gently, shaking my head and kissing her again. "I need to at least find out who it is."

A disgruntled expression crosses her face. "It's alright." I hug her lightly. "You can always kiss me later."

When I pull back she still looks faintly annoyed, but she nods and sighs. "I love you." She murmurs, squeezing my arm, before standing and heading for the bathroom.

When I hear the shower turn on I pick up the phone. "Hello?"

"Santana?" The voice on the other end asks.

"Hey, Quinn."

"You alright? I've been calling your cell for the past thirty minutes."

"Oh, sorry. We were doing something."

"Really?" She asks, her voice filled with surprise. "Wow." She breathes. "That's great. What were you doing?"

"Ehhh…painting."

Quinn chuckles. "Somehow I feel you aren't telling me everything."

"You know me." I pause for a moment. "Let's just say we owe the hotel a lot of money." She laughs. "So, what's with the unexpected call?"

There's a pause, and I can tell Quinn's deliberating to herself.

"Q?" I prompt.

She sighs. "It's alright, it can wait." She says eventually, though there's an edge in her voice that tells me she'd rather tell me now.

"You sure?" I ask cautiously. She makes a sound of affirmation.

My gaze turns to the bathroom, where Brittany's begun to hum loudly. The gears in my head start to turn slowly. "Alright, well, that's up to you. Hey Q, I need a favor. A big one."

She moans in response.

"Please?" I plead.

"Fine. But this better be something I can actually do, Santana."


	17. Little Wonders Part One

A/N: A friend of mine mentioned that the completed Chapter Twelve seems…off. If it really is, I am sincerely sorry about that.

The past few weeks have been exceptionally and especially tough, but that shouldn't be an excuse to write something that isn't worth your time. If my personal temperament bled into my writing, I am sorry. It won't happen again.

On a positive note, I'd like to thank all my readers and my reviewers. I know I don't get to reply to all your reviews but I assure you each one matters a lot to me.

Splitting this update into three parts. The first two are from Brittany's point of view.

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><p><strong>Chapter Thirteen [Part One]: Little Wonders<strong>

I knew Santana was hiding something.

I _know_ my wife. We've known each other for twenty-one years, and we've been together – for most part – for over fifteen of those years. I know everything there is to know about Santana Pierce-Lopez: her daily habits; her food preferences; her quirks and mannerisms; her anatomy; the very manner through which her mind works. It's simple, really. If Santana were a subject I'd ace it without even trying. I know her as well as, if not better than, I know myself.

Which means I know how to tell when she's hiding something from me.

The alarm bells went off in my head the minute I walked out of the shower almost three days ago, when we had the spontaneous paint experience. Santana was sitting on the couch, staring fixedly at a wall, a thoughtful look plastered across her face.

"So, who was it?" I asked her, as I made my way towards the bedroom.

She glanced up at me once, looking disoriented as she came out of her thoughts.

"Oh." She cleared her throat unnecessarily. _Sign number one._ She dropped her gaze._ Sign number two._ "Nothing, really. Quinn just called to check up on us."

Typically, there are two ways to go when Santana behaves this way. First, I could confront her. I'd done this quite a few times in the past, and it usually led to her adamantly declaring that there wasn't anything she was hiding from me for the first five minutes, before inadvertently blurting the truth out at the sixth. The problem was, most of the time the thing she was hiding was some sort of surprise or gift so by confronting her I'd ruined the thrill for both of us.

So I decided to go with the second: play along.

"Oh, that's nice of her." I stuck a smile to my face, but when Santana narrowed her eyes momentarily at me, I knew she wasn't buying it. After all, if I knew her well, she knew me well, too.

"Yeah." She replied, while standing slowly. "It was pretty nice." She nodded absently, pressing her thumbs together._ Sign number three._ "Well, I'm going to shower."

The few days that passed since then went on without much incident, though Santana did insist on cleaning up the living room to assess how much of the damage we could cover up, and how much of it we would inevitably have to pay for. She also kept vanishing into the bathroom or the balcony to make or accept calls, though when I'd ask her casually about it she'd shrug defensively (_Sign number four_) and mutter, "Just Quinn." Or "Just Puck."

Last night when I was about to kiss her good night the blasted device rang again, and at lightning speed she had taken it and ran out to the balcony to answer. I felt slightly pissed and kind of rejected, but I shrugged it off and rolled to my side of the bed, before drifting off.

Besides, she made up for it when she climbed into the bed much later on, peppering my face with light kisses and soft "I-love-yous" before wrapping her arms around me and settling in to sleep.

When I wake up the next morning, I'm almost not surprised to see she's already gone. In her place is a tiny card that reads:

**I'll see you soon. Please trust me.**

I stare blankly at the card for around two minutes, trying to figure what it Santana has up her sleeve this time, before the sound of a knock at the door breaks through the quiet of the hotel suite.

I sigh slightly, standing from the bed and walking wearily towards the entrance. When I swing the door open, my mouth falls open in shock.

"Quinn?" I blurt out.

She grins and steps aside, allowing a tidal wave of hugs from a squealing Rachel, an awkward Finn, a smiling Tina, and a dashing Mike to sweep me off my feet. Puck and Quinn hang back, laughing.

"Is anybody gonna tell me what's going on?" I choke, trying to muster a glare. Mike laughs.

"You'll have to come with us and figure it out." He winks, helping me to my feet.

Quinn grabs my hand and leads me back to the bedroom, saying, "You've got to get dressed now. I had no idea how crazy Santana gets when she plans things. She'll flip if we get you there late."

"I haven't had a shower yet." I protest. Quinn's nose wrinkles adorably and she replies,

"Don't worry about it. Santana won't care."

"I haven't eaten anything." I argue, even though I know it's futile.

Quinn throws open the wardrobe door and pulls out the first pair of sweats she can find. "Don't worry. Santana thought of food, too." She turns to me and hug me tightly. "Just trust her, Britt. She's got everything covered."


	18. Little Wonders Part Two

Dedicated to all my readers out there, but especially to whatevergirl, alittlemusical, startled_Iam, classicodango Kristine, Stacey, Nichole, Sara, Shannon.

[Remember, this is still Brittany's point of view.]

**Chapter Thirteen [Part Two]: Little Wonders**

"_Happiness is like the old man told me  
>Look for it, but you'll never find it all<br>Let it go, live your life and leave it  
>Then one day, you'll wake up and she'll be home."<em>

_Happiness, The Fray_

I have a hunch that I know what's about to happen and it gives me an odd mixture of dread and exhilaration. My stomach is churning in nausea, but my blood is racing in anticipation.

The six have taken me to the park where Santana and I used to spend our early mornings feeding the ducks. The sun hasn't risen completely yet, and in the cold, early hours of the morning I can see my breath leaving my body in quick, white steam.

It reminds me a lot of high school.

"You alright?" Finn asks from behind me, bumping my shoulder lightly. We're walking slowly towards the direction of the pond, the others looking around curiously to see how different the park looks since they were last there.

"Yeah." I nod weakly. "I think so."

"Are you warm enough?" Rachel asks worriedly. "Santana would skin us alive if we got you sick. She was very clear that we were to bring you here in the most pristine of conditions."

I chuckle. "Yes, I'm fine. Thanks." For a moment we walk in silence, and it hits me like a freight train, how amazing these people truly are. They all know about what happened that day in the shower, but none of them have said anything about it. None of them are even treating me differently. My throat tightens with overwhelming gratefulness and tears swim in my eyes.

"Brittany!" I hear a voice shriek in the distance, and I blink rapidly. I have to squint to make them out, but soon I feel a genuine smile shaping in my face when I realize who it is.

"Kurt!" He runs towards me, before enveloping me in a tight hug ad spinning me around in circles. "I'm so glad you're doing fine." He whispers softly into my ear when he finally lets me go.

"So am I." I mumble, remembering for a short moment the last time he'd seen me: standing naked in the shower, holding a knife. For a moment I feel the hot stab of shame. But when he pull back I don't see any judgment in his bright eyes, and relief buzzes through me.

"I gotta admit, Santana is one hell of a planner." Blaine declares from behind Kurt. "Hey, Brittany." He hugs me softly. "Glad you're hanging in there."

"Thanks." I smile. Beside me, Puck asks Kurt softly,

"Is everything all set?"

From the corner of my eye, I see Kurt nod excitedly, and Rachel claps eagerly.

"This is going to be epic." I hear Mike telling Tina.

"And Mercedes and Sam? Are they…?" Quinn trails off.

"Yep." Blaine confirms, the hugest smile on his face.

All the suspense is killing me. "Well, aren't you going to tell me yet what's going on?"

They exchange glances, grinning.

"Nope." Tina smirks, looking beyond me. "We'll leave that to your wife." She raises a hand and gestures towards the pond.

Kurt snickers, loping an arm around mine. Quinn quickly follows the action with my other arm, and they march me forward. Just as we're about to make the final bend that leads directly to the pond, another voice cries out,

"Brittany!"

"Artie?" I say incredulously, staring at the man leaning against crutches before me. "Oh my God, I haven't seen you in ages!"

"Yeah." He laughs, hugging me with one arm. "I was really surprised when Santana called me."

"You're walking!" I exclaim, stunned. Then what he said registers in my mind. "Santana called _you_?"

Artie nods, and looks over to the rest of the former New Directions. "She called all of us. She told me she wanted everyone you loved to be here, because this was an important moment."

Emotion breaks over me in powerful, roaring waves, and I almost feel lightheaded from feeling so loved. I close my eyes, my lips trembling. _Thank you God_, I think to myself, _for making Santana Lopez mine_.

When I look up everyone's staring at me patiently. I realize with gratitude that they aren't going to force me to enter if I wasn't ready. "Thank you." I manage to choke out.

I feel two arms wrap around me from behind. I don't need to turn around to find out whose body they're attached to, because I already know. I lay my hands on top of Santana's, squeezing tightly. Reassurance runs through body.

When I begin to nod slowly, she lets go of me. I look at everyone around me – my friends, my family, each one of them representing bits of me – and I take Santana's hand and walk the final bend to the duck pond. They follow behind us.

It's amazing because it looks exactly the way I remembered it, the water rippling gently in the morning breeze. The sound of soft quacking fills my ears, and something tugs painfully at my heart. Then I notice Sam and Mercedes standing close to an edge, a large wheelbarrow at their feet.

"Oh my God." I hear myself whispering, my eyes widening, because I think I understand. I turn to Santana, who's smiling tenderly at me. She pulls me softly towards the wheelbarrow, and the smell of Breadstix fills my nose trills.


	19. Little Wonders Part Three

Remember. I'm _happy_ when I see all the hits.

_Ecstatic_ when I see all the alerts.

_Orgasmic_ when I read the reviews.

So, people, make me come. :)

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><p><strong>Chapter Thirteen [Part Three]: Little Wonders<strong>

"I'd like to thank you guys for coming."

I'm on my feet, looking at the remarkable group of people sitting around me. I feel a lump form in my throat just seeing them all: Finn, Rachel, Quinn, Puck, Tina, Mike, Kurt, Blaine, Mercedes, Sam, even Artie. "I know you all have your own lives to figure out, and it means so much –" The words catch in my throat. "It means so much that you were all willing to come here today."

"Of course." Rachel pipes in enthusiastically, and the rest of the New Directions shush her.

"Thanks." I laugh shakily. "You know, when we were juniors in McKinley, Brittany told me that Glee wasn't just some club – it was a family." I swallow thickly and tears blur my vision. "The old me knew that in the inside, but pretended not to on the outside." I shake my head. "But standing here today, older, softer, hopefully wiser…" I hear Puck make a sound of agreement, "…and whipped…" The group chuckles, and I see Brittany's eyes sparkling, "I want to say that yeah, we are a family." Kurt's smiling a ridiculously heartwarming grin. "And I love you guys." I admit gruffly, dropping my gaze.

Everyone's quiet now, sensing that there's more to come.

"As you know, the past few months have been really difficult." I see Quinn nod solemnly, and Blaine drapes an arm on Brittany's shoulder. "And there are some things I need to say to Brittany now, before anything else happens and the moment slips away." Blaine releases Brittany, who stands and moves towards me.

When she's right in front of me, I take both her hands and gaze deeply into her eyes. "You know, these few months made me realize that sometimes, we're going to fail." From the corner of my eye, I'm dimly aware of Puck grasping Quinn's hand in his. "We're going to fail in expressing ourselves." Mercedes leans her head against Sam's shoulder, "Maybe we're even going to fail at being there for each other." Kurt and Blaine exchange a meaningful glance.

"But no matter what happens, you and me…" I pause. "…we're never going to be a failure." Brittany gives me a watery smile.

"I love you, Britt."I squeeze Brittany's soft fingers once before releasing them. I take a step away from her, and a confused look crosses her face. "I love you so much, and that's why I'm doing this." I take a deep breath. "Even if, technically, it is illegal."

I turn around, and walk straight into the pond. I hear Brittany gasp behind me as my feet crash into the body of water and my clothes get heavy with wetness. I ignore the cold brushing against my skin, and trudge toward the ducks.

"Oh, San." At this point I'm buried in the water up to my waist and the soil beneath my feet is barely stable, so it feels like I'm walking on quicksand.

But there's a determination lighting me up inside that propels me forward. Right now, I'm driven by emotions I just can't control – the same emotions that pushed me to initiate that first kiss when we were fourteen, the same emotions that made me drop to one knee when we were twenty-one, the same emotions I felt when I first saw Nicholas tucked safely into Brittany's arms when I was twenty-three – and I'm not even thinking. When I reach the paddle of ducks, none of them make a move to fly, or to – thank God – attack me. With gentle movements, I take one lightly in both my hands.

It squirms slightly, and I almost lose my footing and slide into the water.

But an arm wraps around my torso, steadying me. "You're crazy, you know that?" Brittany breathes into my ear, as she begins to lead us back to land.

I'm laughing before I can stop myself. Finn and Puck help me out of the water, since my hands are still occupied with the waterfowl. Mike and Sam heave Brittany out, before Quinn throws a jacket around her shoulders. Tina tries to do the same thing with me, but my legs move towards Brittany on their own accord.

"Yep, I am crazy. But you love me." I grin, stopping in front of her, holding the duck up proudly and holding it out to her like its a million dollars, or a fragment of a shining star, "And you know what? I'm only crazy for you."

For a moment Brittany looks at me, then her eyes fall on duck in my hands.

I turn to Blaine and give him a small nod. He grins for a quick second, before bursting into song in his rich tenor voice.

"_Let it go. Let it roll right off your shoulder.  
>Don't you know? The hardest part is over.<br>Let it in. Let your clarity define you.  
>In the end, you will only just remember how it feels."<em>

And of course, just as I planned it, everyone knows the song. Rachel beams, and without hesitation she joins in. She nudges Finn, telling him to sing along, too. Everyone else moves until they're forming a semi-circle around us, but all I can see is Brittany. She's looking at me with her eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

"_Our lives are made in these small hours  
>These little wonders, these twists and turns of fate.<br>Time falls away, but these small hours  
>These small hours, still remain."<em>

A lone tear slips past her eyelashes, and I reach out to brush it off her cheek. Then Puck bursts out,

"_Let it slide. Let your troubles fall behind you.  
>Let it shine, till you feel it all around you."<em>

He squeezes Quinn's hand, and she adds her voice to the simple harmony. Sam and Mercedes join soon after.

"_And I don't mind if it's me you need to turn to.  
>We'll get by. It's the heart that really matters in the end."<em>

I watch as numerous emotions cross Brittany's face – shock, confusion, sadness, pain, acceptance.

"_Our lives are made in these small hours  
>These little wonders, these twists and turns of fate<br>Time falls away. But these small hours,  
>These small hours, still remain."<em>

Everyone's singing their hearts out to us now, and their voices feel like tiny tendrils wrapping us all in a safe bubble. The tears are pouring noiselessly down Brittany's face, but she's wearing a beautiful, uplifting smile. I move forward and lean my chin against her shoulder, careful not to crush the animal in my hands. The rest of the New Directions fall silent when I open my mouth and sing into her ear,

"_All of my regret will wash away somehow.  
>But I cannot forget the way I feel right now."<em>

She pulls back and looks up at me, while our friends sing the chorus one last time. When they finish, she concludes softly,

"_Oh, they still remain,  
>These little wonders,<br>All these twists and turns of fate.  
>Time falls away,<br>But these small hours ,  
>These little wonders,<br>Still remain."_

She breathes deeply and closes her eyes. When she opens them, her shaking hands take the duck from mine. For a moment everyone seems to be holding in their breath, staring at her, waiting for a reaction.

Then she looks at me, leans forward and presses her lips to mine.

At first she just tastes like the pond, then the unpleasant taste is swept away by the sweetness bursting from Brittany's warm tongue. She tastes like everything good and right in this world, the way I imagine light would taste in my darkest nights, the way I imagine sound would taste in my quietest moments. Her kiss is a hundred 'I'm-sorrys,' a thousand 'I'm-heres,' and a million 'I-love-yous.' She tastes like home, like undying love, like renewed promises, like happiness. And it's just perfect.

When I pull back amid cheering from all our closest friends, I'm smiling so wide, it actually hurts.


	20. The Psychology of Forgiveness

Your reviews and comments make me grin, and laugh, and cry. If they were a song, it would be "Welcome Christmas" from the Glee Christmas episode. Just uplifting, breathtaking and beautiful.

A word on this chapter. It doesn't contain that much Brittana, but from the start I have felt strongly that there are some topics in this story that need to be fleshed out more thoroughly.

I hope you tell me what you think.

**Chapter Fourteen [Part One]: The Psychology of Forgiveness**

"_I'm wide awake and I can see the perfect sky is torn."_

_Torn, Natalie Imbruglia_

"I need to tell you something."

Quinn says it softly into my left ear, her mouth barely moving. The entire gang is gathered around the wheelbarrow of Breadstix in the living room hotel suite, consuming its contents slowly.

It's been a long time since we've all been together like this, and it feels so carefree, it's almost like we're still high school. If I tried hard enough, I could almost pretend we're back in the choir room of McKinley, young enough to still feel oblivious to the rest of the world. I miss that feeling.

"Is something wrong?" I ask her just as softly. I look around at the people around us. Santana's sitting on the floor, leaning comfortably against my legs. Every now and then she'd turn and look up at me, smiling warmly. It gave me butterflies.

Quinn doesn't shake her head, but she doesn't nod either. Urgency is etched all over her expression as she whispers from tight lips, "Brittany, is there somewhere we can talk?"

I sigh, dread seeping slowly into my body. "Alright. Come with me to the bedroom."

Quinn gives a relieved sigh as she stands. I lay a hand on Santana's shoulder. "Babe, I'm going to move."

She looks up at me in response and pouts adorably. "Where are you going?"

I toss my head towards Quinn's direction. Santana raises her eyebrows, and I shrug. "It seems urgent."

Santana frowns thoughtfully, looking at Quinn critically. Quinn gives her a pleading look. "Alright." San sighs after a moment, leaning forward so I can free my legs.

"Thanks babe." I kiss the top of her head lightly. "I love you."

"And I love you." She smiles at me once, before casting Quinn a final questioning look.

I stand and move towards the bedroom silently with Quinn. Some of the New Directions throw us curious looks, but no one says anything.

"So what is this about?" I close the door behind me.

Quinn looks straight at me. Her expression is so serious it's almost frightening.

"Brittany," She falters. I wait patiently while she rubs two fingers over her temples slowly. "God, this is so hard." She lets out a trembling laugh, shaking her head back and forth slowly. I walk forward slowly to stand beside her, laying a hand on her shoulder.

"Quinn?"

"What do you think of forgiveness?" She asks quietly, her eyes locked on her feet. My mouth goes dry. Everything around me feels still, as though the world chose this specific moment in time to hold its breath so it could hear my answer.

"Forgiveness?" I echo dumbly. My tongue feels heavy in my mouth. My brain spews out words I didn't realize I associate with forgiveness: _God, sins, crime, hate, guilt, forgetting, compassion, empathy, understanding, Nicholas, Nicholas, Nicholas._

"Forgiveness." She repeats, turning to face me. My hand drops uselessly to my side. "What do you think about it?"

I swallow nonexistent saliva. "I don't know."

Quinn studies my face for a moment. "Do you believe that everyone is this world deserves a shot at forgiveness, Brittany?"

Alarm bells trigger in my mind. "What are you talking about?"

Her eyes suddenly look fearful, as though she's sincerely afraid of the words she's about to say. She inhales deeply, slowly. "Brittany…" She pauses. "He wants to talk to you."

The breath is knocked out of me and I feel myself stumbling backwards. My eyes seem to have shut involuntarily, and all I see is a smothering black."He?"

She hesitates. "Taylor Linwich."

Cold breaks all over my body, and fear settles deep into my gut. Images from the hallway play in rapid succession, ending in the image of blood coating my fingers.

"No." I hear myself gasping. I didn't even realize I was on the floor. "No, you can't make me. No, I won't do it. No, I can't do it. NO."

Quinn's eyes widen. "Calm down, Britt –"

"You have no idea what it was like, Quinn." My voice is rising, and I'm rocking my body back and forth. "I saw him stab my son." I spit the last word out with as much vehemence as I can manage. "How can you ask me to forgive that?"

Her hands find their way to my shoulders, and she squeezes tightly, before dropping to my level to envelop me in a hug. For a minute neither of us says anything, and eventually I wrap my arms around her, and my loud, erratic breathing calms.

"You need to heal." She says in a low voice.

"I'm healing." I argue weakly. "Santana and I are doing fine."

"Yes, you both are." Quinn agrees gently, pulling back. "But what you're doing with Santana isn't enough, Brittany. Finding each other, and finding comfort in each other… that's just a part of the whole." She gazes deeply into my eyes. "You're still afraid, aren't you?"

I swallow thickly and every cell in my body aches to deny it. "I'll get over it."

She sighs. She moves her body so she's sitting next to me. "Let's reverse the situation." She suggests. "Let's say you did something wrong. Wouldn't you want at least the chance to be heard out?"

"That's different." I almost growl.

"Is it?" She presses, eyebrows raised.

"I'll never kill someone's child, Quinn." I say, my teeth gritted. "And hey, since we're reversing situations here. Would you forgive him, if it was one of your daughters who was killed?"

I hear her breath hitch and I know I've given a low blow. For a moment I feel sick satisfaction humming in my veins, then she surprises me by turning to me with a fierce look sparkling in her eyes.

"Don't think for one moment that I don't how this feels for you, Brittany." Her voice is surprisingly even. "I know you're trying your best to fix things with Santana. I know you're still scared. I know that deep inside, even if you hide it, or even if you've suppressed it, you're angry, too. This right now? This…" She pauses, looking for the right word, "…opportunity? It'll help you find closure."

I feel the fight leaking out of me. "I don't know what I'll do it I meet him." I confess hollowly, dropping my eyes. "I'm so scared that I'll…" I swallow, "…hurt him, or something."

Quinn inhales deeply. Then she lays a hand on my arm. "Linwich deserves all the pain he can get. But I know you're a good person, Brittany." I look up at her, and encouragement is shining brightly in her eyes. "Just promise me you'll think about it, okay?"

I heave a sigh and lay my head on her shoulder, and we fall silent.


	21. Take A Stand

First, thanks for all your comments/reviews/criticisms/etc. I was going to wait a little bit before I wrote this update but after reading the reviews and etc I realized I needed you guys to read this ASAP. I wrote this really quickly, so there may be numerous errors. Sorry.

I hope you tell me what you think.

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><p><strong>Chapter Fourteen [Part Two]: Take A Stand<strong>

"_Don't want to be spun around."_

_Son of A Gun, Oh Land_

"I need to tell you something."

Kurt says it softly to me when I reach for another piece of Breadstix, my eyes still glued to the closed door of the bedroom. I feel worry bubbling incessantly in my body, and I have half a mind to stand up and find out what exactly Quinn is telling Brittany. It's unnerving, not knowing.

"What?" I mutter back absently, nibbling on the edge of the long stick.

"Santana." Kurt sighs. "I did a lot to help out this morning. I was at least hoping for your complete attention."

I groan inwardly and turn my body towards him. "What?" I ask exasperatedly.

He tosses his head to the bathroom and stands. "Be right back." He explains to Blaine, who's wearing a confused look on his face.

I moan a Spanish expletive under my breath as I stand. I stretch slightly, before following Kurt into the bathroom.

"What is it?" I ask as I shut the door behind me. I lean against it wearily, my mind still stuck wondering what Quinn needed to tell Brittany so urgently. _Why couldn't it wait?_

It's dark, but I can see the outline of Kurt's body in the dim light. For a moment he says nothing. "Santana," He begins slowly, "you've been a fighter your whole life."

I freeze, stunned. The surprise is enough to snap me out of my distraction. "What?" I hear myself ask in a confused voice.

I hear Kurt sigh softly. "You know I'm right." He leans against the sink.

"So?" I ask, bewildered.

For a long moment he says nothing, until I start feeling impatient enough to leave. I have to check on Brittany, and make sure she's alright.

"I think you and Brittany should join the fight against homophobia, Santana."

My thoughts literally stop forming. I feel like every single cell in my body has temporarily ceased to function, rendering me incapable of doing anything for a split second.

"What the fuck?" I hear myself blurt out.

"Look, hear me out, alright?" He begs, holding his arms up. Without bothering to wait for an answer, he rushes on. "People need to know you've been through. Teenagers need to know what you've been through."

"You've got to be shitting me." I growl.

"Do you really think I'd shit you about something as serious as this?" He replies coolly. He heaves a huge sigh. "Look, Santana. I know you don't like talking about your feelings. But hate crimes are getting really bad. Not just in this country, all over the world. We thought we were making progress, but it looks like we haven't managed to strike the heart of the matter. Most people still don't really understand us." He shakes his head sadly. "And its high time people remembered that even if we're members of the LGBTQI, we're still primarily members of the human race."

"And how are we supposed to fix that?" I snarl.

"You need to talk about it." He halts. "Everything."

"No fucking way." I deadpan.

He sighs again. "I know I can't even begin to imagine how difficult it will be for you. But you need to realize that by speaking up, you're fighting not just for yourselves but for the millions of people out there who are like us. Especially all the teenagers, who are honestly having the hardest time right now."

"Are you fucking kidding me? You want me to talk to _kids_?" I snap. "I'm not going to go parading around, telling people about what we've been through. There's no way I'm going to open up to a bunch of strangers about how this _feels_, Kurt." My nostrils flare. "I am not going to talk to a bunch of teenagers – _children_ – about this. Jesus."

"What you've been through has the potential to change lives, Santana." I open my mouth to argue, but he continues on heatedly. "Look, you can change perspectives here. What you've been through can inspire people into understanding the LGBTQI community. You can save lives here, Santana. Because right now, the situation is so bad that gay kids can't even accept themselves."

I shake my head over and over. My body's trembling. Kurt continues.

"Do you remember what it felt like as a teenager? The fear? The uncertainty? The damn confusion? These kids need someone to tell them it's going to be alright."

"Isn't that contradictory?" I rebut angrily. "Here are the facts." I hold up one finger. "I am a lesbian." I hold up another. "Brittany is bisexual." I hold up a third. "We're legally married." I hold up a forth. "We had a son." I stick out the last finger. "Our son was killed." I fold the five fingers in a fist. "To sum it up: I am a lesbian, Brittany's bisexual, we're married because we love each other, we decided to have a child because we wanted to start a family, and he was killed because of what we were. How can I tell teenagers that it's going to be alright? How can I encourage them to be brave, come out and accept themselves if this is the sort of future they're going to look forward to?"

Kurt inhales deeply and shuts his eyes, thinking. "Fine, let's have it your way." He whispers. In the darkness, I feel his piercing gaze on me. "Let's say you never decided to sing Landslide to Brittany in Glee Club, that Mr. Shue never required us to go through that Rumours album. Let's say you never came out of the closet. Let's say you never found the courage to tell Brittany how you felt. That you never grew the spine to tell the love of your life," He emphasizes the last words heavily, "the woman you are going to spend your life with," He pauses, then accentuates, "your _soulmate, _that you loved her more than life. If you didn't do the things you did, do you think your life would be worth living, the way it is now?

"And yes, you've lost a son. I know there is no pain in the world that can compare to that. But do you really, really think that that automatically makes everything you and Brittany built worthless? Does that cancel every good thing out? Do really believe that you'd prefer a life where you didn't go through all those experiences that led to you having Nicholas? Do you?"

Kurt pauses his passionate speech, and inhales deeply before continuing,

"These kids need to know that it's alright to be who they are, even if they will go through the most shitty of circumstances – such as you and Brittany are, right now. They need to be assured that they must stay true to themselves, even if the rest of the world were to trample on them and try to strip away the human being in them. They need to be made aware that, no matter what, it's still _right_ to be who they are.

"You say that this sort of future isn't one that they should look forward to." He continues, calm now. "And I agree with you. This life is more difficult than it should be." He pauses. "But who do you think has the power to change that?" He lets the question hang in the air, unanswered.

Our eyes meet in the darkness, and he can see that he's made his point.

"Think about it, Santana."

He walks out the door, leaving me alone. In the silent darkness, the tears fall freely.


	22. Caught in the Crossfire Part One

First of all, I really appreciate your reviews and comments for the last two chapters. I'm glad that most of you thought really deeply about the situation. And yehey for New York! xD

I forgot to mention that the last chapter was dedicated to Dianna Agron.

Again, I hope you tell me what you think, because your opinions are amazing.

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><p><strong>Chapter Fifteen [Part One]: Caught in the Crossfire<strong>

"_And when the hardest part is over we'll be here,_

_and our dreams will break the boundaries of our fears."_

_Crossfire, Brandon Flowers_

"I was beginning to think they weren't planning to leave." Santana comments drily while shutting the door with a determined snap. She turns and leans against the wooden surface. For a moment she doesn't move, staring blankly at the ground beneath her feet. Then she inhales deeply and closes her eyes.

"You alright?" I ask her softly, stepping towards her from my seat on the couch. She makes a small sound in the back of her throat, but she keeps her head down. After a moment she raises her eyes to meet mine.

"Where'd you keep the duck?" She asks softly, looking at me with curious – but guarded – eyes.

I feel my lips twitch into a smile, the first real one I've made since the talk with Quinn. I point towards the small kitchenette area. "He's in the sink."

Santana nods absently, before closing her eyes again. For a moment neither of says anything, then I sigh and walk towards her.

"Where are you right now?" I wrap my arms around her, gathering her to me gently. She presses her face to the crook of my neck, and throws her arms around my neck.

"I've got a lot of things on my mind." She explains in a low voice. I wait patiently, swaying her lightly back and forth, until we're dancing to the quiet music of our hearts beating in sync. "Kurt said some things to me today, while you were talking with Quinn–" Her voice trembles slightly, "–and it just stuck with me."

I nod slightly, because I know what she means. The remnants of my conversation with Quinn have run back and forth in the highways of my mind so many times, its burned bridges while simultaneously building some. The words have literally invaded my mind, and it's difficult to think of anything else without my thoughts looping inevitably back to Taylor Linwich, forgiveness, closure. All that.

She sighs once, snapping me out of my internal bubble. She burrows her head deeper into my neck and chokes, "I just don't really want to think right now."

"Alright, babe." I whisper, leaning my head against hers. We sway for a few more minutes, before I stop moving and break the silence with a quiet, "Hey."

"Hmmm?" She replies, pulling back to look at me.

I give her a soft smile, before reaching out to rub some dirt off her cheek. "Thank you for today."

She responds by clutching me tightly, desperately, and saying in a breaking voice, "You know I love you, right?"

"I know." I assure her, cupping her face with both my hands. "I've never doubted that."

Her eyes glaze over and she whispers, "Not even in high school?"

I blink once, surprised. "What do you mean?"

She pulls out of my grasp abruptly, turning her face away.

"San?" I ask worriedly, moving towards her. I extend my arm to touch hers, but she quickly walks to a far corner of the room, her back to me.

"How can you love me?" She asks me in a tortured whisper. "I'm a horrible person."

"Santana!" I exclaim, shocked. "That isn't true. You know that isn't true. Don't say that."

"It's true!" She explodes all of a sudden. "God, Brittany!" She lets out a strangled sob. "I don't have a fucking spine."

Some part of me wants to retort sarcastically and point out that she does have a fully functioning spinal column, but I bite my tongue because whatever's on her mind is clearly bothering her. So instead I inhale deeply, and think back on the original question: _Not even in high school?_

"I always knew that you loved me." I answer loudly. She looks up, surprised. "Even in high school. Even with Puck, and Finn, and Sam, and Karofsky. Whoever you happened to be with, whoever you just happened to hook up with. I always knew you loved me. I knew long before you did. And that was the problem." Her mouth opens slightly, but no sound comes out. "I had to wait for you to figure it out. Then I had to wait for you to accept it. I had to wait for you to be brave enough to learn to love yourself, because that was the only way you were ever going to truly admit to yourself how you felt about me." I swallow thickly, watching the motions rush across her face. "But through it all, I still knew that you loved me." I shrug slightly. "I suppose that's why I didn't mind waiting, why I was willing to stay in the sidelines while you learned to get over the shame of being who you are. I didn't mind as long as you would finally learn to accept yourself completely and unwaveringly, with an open mind and heart."

I take a step towards her. "At some point in senior year, I was even willing to let you go just so you'd find yourself." I take another step closer. She doesn't back away. "And that was when I realized how much I really, truly loved you, too. I loved you so much I was ready to let you go and move on without me, as long as you managed to finally love every bit of the amazing person that you are, Santana."

"How can I love you?" I continue. I pause, trying to find the right words to express the emotions that bring out responses in me that are as instinctual as breathing.

"I need to love you." I say after a moment. I take another step towards her. "It's the core of my existence, San. Sometimes I feel like the only reason I'm really here is to love you. Like I was born for the sole purpose of loving you. It's the most natural thing I've ever done in the world. I need to love you, because in many ways, it's the only way I've ever known to love myself."

"But I'm a coward." She whispers brokenly. She's so close I can feel her breath blowing over my face.

I slam my foot against the ground, and I hear her gasp. "Don't you dare say that." I say coolly. "I won't let anyone insult you. Not even yourself."

For a moment neither of us says anything. I watch as a single tear runs slowly down her cheek. It's the best way she could have said _thank you_.

"What do you think would have happened if we didn't end up together, back in high school?" She asks me softly, taking a tentative step towards me, closing the distance.

"I would have been living with eyes that worked but had nothing to see." I answer in a voice as soft as hers. Slowly, she makes her way back into my arms. "Or ears that worked but had nothing to hear. Skin that felt but nothing to touch." She sighs slightly, laying her head on my shoulder. "A heart that could beat had nothing to live for."

She sniffs slightly. "Sometimes," she begins softly against my collarbone. I strain my ears to hear her clearly. "Sometimes I still feel like that girl in high school. The one who didn't really love herself."

"I know." I tell her, as she begins to cry earnestly.

"Especially after Nicholas was killed." She sobs. I feel a pang as the words _TAYLOR LINWICH_ zooms through my head in big, bold letters. "For a while I felt so ashamed that he died because of what we were." She shudders. "And there was a moment after the funeral when I couldn't stop thinking that he wouldn't have died if one of us had been a guy."

I feel myself tense slightly. Then I relax and whisper, "It's okay."

"No, it's not." She disagrees. "I can't believe I let myself feel ashamed of us because of what happened." She pulls back slightly, and I see resolve lighting slowly in her expressive, brown eyes. "I hurt you because of it."

I begin to shake my head, but she presses on.

"It's true, Brittany. By feeling that shame, by thinking those thoughts, I wasn't just denying myself self-realization, I was also degrading us. I realize that now." She clenches her jaw.

"Santana –" I try to interrupt.

"It isn't enough for me to say that I love you." She carries on, ignoring me. She looks at me seriously before adding in a calm voice, "I need to tell you now that _I love us_."

Her words hit me like a freight train. Tears form in my eyes, and I feel a smile forming across my cheeks. I lean towards her slowly, pressing my lips against her forehead. "I love you." I whisper against her skin. I feel her tremble slightly. "And I love us, too, so, so much."

She looks up at me and smiles tenderly. Then she takes a deep breath before saying, "There's something I need to tell you."

"Yeah." I reply, my smile fading when _TAYLOR LINWICH_ flashes in my mind again. "There's something I need to tell you too."

"Kurt talked to me today about joining the fight against homophobia." She blurts out.

My mouth opens in a quiet pop and the air feels like it's been punched out of me. But she isn't done yet. She grasps both my hands in hers and finishes with,

"And now I realize he's right. We should."


	23. Caught in the Crossfire Part Two

Wow, thanks for all your reviews! They made me smile for hours, and kept me upbeat even if I'm right now I'm superbly poor, remarkably unhealthy, and amazingly miserable. Keep 'em coming. I want to surpass 200 by the end of this story. x)

Mom, even if you never see this, and even if you don't particularly like the Brittana storyline, this is for you. You were the person who taught me to always do the right thing – no matter how painful, no matter who I was up against, no matter the consequences.

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><p><strong>Chapter Fifteen [Part Two]: Caught in the Crossfire<strong>

"_Let me inside, no cause for alarm._

_I promise tonight not to do no harm."_

_Crossfire, Brandon Flowers_

"Wow. If we really do decide to do that, it'll be a really, really huge step, San." Her eyes are wide, filled with the unique childlike wonder I can only attribute to Brittany.

"It will." I agree. I feel my lips shaping into a small smile. "It just feels like the right thing to do, you know?" I squeeze her hands gently.

"Right thing to do?" She echoes, her brows suddenly furrowing slightly. A distant look settles in her eyes, and they shift away from my face to the space behind me.

"Yeah," I reply, my eyebrows rising involuntarily at her rather unexpected reaction. I wait for a moment, but she seems to have frozen temporarily in the moment. "Are you alright?"

She blinks once, and her eyes move back to mine. "Uh, yeah." She replies lamely.

My eyebrows rise impossibly higher. "Well, that's what Kurt told me." I pause momentarily, trying to find the right words to frame the question in my mind. "So, what about Quinn?"

An anguished look crosses Brittany's face, and I feel worry start to pump steadily in every cell in my body. Her eyes sweep over my face rapidly, as though she's searching for answers on my skin. I tighten my hold on her delicate fingers.

"Honey, what's wrong?" I whisper.

She swallows visibly, then says in a low voice, "Taylor Linwich wants to talk to us."

Hearing the name unleashes intense emotions over me, chasing out all the positive thoughts I had just a few minutes back, like the dogs of the underworld hunting down their innocent prey. It literally feels like a chainsaw's been driven into my body, before having it twist in a slow, steady counterclockwise direction.

"What?" I hear myself choking out. I don't even realize I've let go of her hands until I feel the coldness in the absence of her warmth.

"Quinn thinks we should forgive him." She murmurs, the agony in her eyes shining brightly. The world begins to shake around me, and I grab unto the nearest surface to stabilize myself. I'm yelling, "NO." before I even realize it.

"That's what I told her." Brittany tells me in a distressed whisper.

"What did she say?" Anger resonates in every single syllable. Some part of me wants to find Fabray so I can skin her tactless little ass.

Brittany drops her gaze and falls into the couch. "She told me we needed to heal."

Maniacal laughter rips through my body, and my tight fist connects with the solid wall. "Fuck her. We're doing fine." My throat begins to ache with all the yelling I've been doing. "We're doing fine." I repeat, in a much softer voice.

Brittany remains silent much longer than I thought she would. I look at her, shock combining with the anger flowing through me.

"You've got to be kidding me." I groan. "Don't tell me that Quinn-fucking-Fabray got into your mind, Brittany."

Brittany shrugs defensively.

"Spit it out." I snap, fury roaring in my head monstrously.

"I think she's right." Brittany whispers softly. She looks up at me, her face begging for me to hear her out. When I say nothing, she continues in an even softer voice, "We're always going to be trapped in this bubble unless we do something about it."

"The only thing we're trapped in is this stupid idea." I growl. "We. Are. Doing. FINE." I repeat, throwing emphasis on every single word.

"No, we're not." She says, dropping her gaze. "We're finding ways to distract ourselves. And the distractions are working. It doesn't hurt as much as it used to. But there will always be that bit of us holding on desperately to all the unanswered questions, San."

"And you think talking to him – IT – will help us find those answers?" I ask heatedly. "God damn it, Brittany. If I'm ever allowed to be within fifty meters of him, I swear I will kill him with my bare hands. And how dare he have the nerve to want to talk to us!"

Brittany looks at me with eyes filled with so much sorrow I feel like I'm suffocating with it. "But it all kind of fits, don't you see?" She whispers slowly.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Well…" She hesitates for the smallest fraction of a second. "You were talking about doing the right thing."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"It has everything to do with all this." She inhales deeply, keeping calm. "I think it's the right thing to do." She says evenly.

"Let me get this straight." I say through gritted teeth. "You think that forgiving a murderer would be the right thing to do?" I shake my head. "Can you hear yourself? This is the person who killed Nicholas. Our son. _Your fucking son._"

"I know that!" She cries, a bitter edge entering her voice. "You think I've forgotten that?"

"Well, it certainly seems like it, if you're here talking about forgiving the person who killed him! God, Brittany!"

"Forgiveness doesn't mean forgetting, Santana." Her eyes narrow. "And who said that this is automatically about forgiveness?" She replies tersely. "It's also about understanding, San. A whole big part of it is about showing compassion and mercy."

"Those all just sound like fancy words for 'bending over backwards' to me." I hiss coldly.

"They aren't." She argues. "You want us to join the fight against homophobia? Well, being able to show the tolerance homophobes failed to give us is the first step to make."

"That isn't the sort of fight I'm signing up for."

"Fighting fire with fire isn't the only way to fight, Santana." She rebuts passionately. "Don't you see that doing that will only make the fire grow even larger?"

A growl bursts involuntarily from my lips, and my hands clench into fists so tight I feel my nails digging sharply into my palms.

Brittany watches as I try to control my anger. She inhales deeply through her mouth, then stands and moves towards me, palms spread open in a pacifying motion. "Look, San, I don't want to fight." She sighs. "You think this isn't difficult for me?" She says slowly. "I saw him kill our son."

"Exactly." I reply, my voice rising again. "He's the reason all this happened in the first place, Brittany! He's the reason Nicholas is gone. He's the reason you had all those terrible nightmares. How can you even think about forgiving that?"

"Because I need to." She blurts out. She drops back unto the couch, looking utterly defeated. "_We_ need to."

My mouth drops open, but I can't think of anything to say.

"It isn't easy." She whispers. "But we need to at least try to understand." She insists, looking at me with pleading eyes. "We owe our son that much."

"The only thing I owe my son is justice." I reply shortly. "And if I have to get that justice through my own hands – if I have to pull out the heart of the idiot who killed him – I will."

"Oh, San." Brittany chokes, tears running freely down her face. For some reason they make me even more furious, though all my emotions are all over the place and I can't determine who I'm mad at anymore. Quinn? Linwich? Brittany? Myself? And how did I go from _'I love us' _to this? I worked so hard to make sure that today would be perfect, and now everything is lying in pieces on the floor. Brittany chokes on her tears, and I snap back to reality. Sniffing, she whispers, "Don't you see that hurting him will only make us as bad as he is?"

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard." I say harshly, automatically, without thinking twice.

The gravity of my words – one 's' word in particular – hits me when I see her face fall, and an utterly broken and betrayed look fills her eyes.

The anger drains out of my body, and guilt replaces it with overwhelming force.

"Brittany." I begin, horrified. I move towards her. "Oh my God, I'm so sorr–"

"I'm going to bed." She interrupts in a broken voice, standing and moving out of my grasp.

She turns and walks straight into the bedroom. I hear a sob burst from her lips before the door shuts behind her. The sound of the knob mechanism latching into place breaks my heart.

Never in my entire life have I hated myself so much.


	24. Caught in the Crossfire Part Three

**Kristine Tronco, you are an amazing human being.**

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><p><strong>Chapter Fifteen [Part Three]: Caught in the Crossfire<strong>

The worst things to be trapped in are memories.

I'm sitting on the edge of the mattress, my hands clasped tightly as I remember the incident in hallway again. The image and sounds of that day have blurred together with my nightmares so well that I can no longer distinguish what really happened, and what my mind constructed.

I'm still lost in my muddled thoughts when a knock on the door interrupts me.

"Brittany." I hear her say through the door. My heart aches within the confines of my ribcage, like its bruised and I can't do anything about it.

"I'm so sorry." I hear her say brokenly. "I didn't mean to lose my temper." I hear the unmistakable sound of nails scratching on wood. "I didn't mean what I said, Brittany! God, I'm so sorry."

I almost reply then. Almost.

"You aren't stupid." She continues, a desperation creeping into her voice. "And you're ideas aren't stupid, either. I'm the one stupid, I just couldn't control how I felt, and the words just came out… I'm so sorry."

That's not the point, I want to cry out.

"I'm sorry." She says again, her voice muffled. I realize she must be leaning against the door now. "I'm such a bitch. But please, please forgive me. I can lose everything in this world, as long as it isn't you."

I stand up from the bed and walk over to the door. I lay my palm flat on the surface, as though touching the barrier between us will bring me closer to her.

"I know you are." I croak out, my voice hoarse. I clear my throat and try again. "Santana, I know you're sorry." I swallow thickly. "But that's not the point."

"What do you mean?" She asks, her voice anxious.

_I mean,_ I think to myself, _that I don't really care about you calling me stupid. I know that you don't mean it. I'm not even sad because we disagree about what we should do about the situation. _I sigh to myself, thinking the words in my head but never letting them leave my lips. _But I see through you, Santana, and I know that you're still filled with so much anger. _Tears fill my eyes. _I'm not scared of your anger. But I don't know what to do. I don't know how to save you._

"Britt?" I hear her call worriedly through the door.

"You know," I begin hesitantly, "Deep inside, I know that I don't want to forgive him, either. I know that the very fabric of my soul can't forgive him for what he did." I inhale deeply. "I don't even really want to see him. I know that there's a huge chance that doing so will only make me more open to vulnerability, that by going to meet him, he has an advantage to hurt me even more than he already has."

I pause, grateful when she doesn't interrupt. I need her to hear what I'm about to say. "But at the same time, even if I know all of that, I feel this need to understand. It's not that I'm trying to find justifications for our son's death... But when I was a child, my grandmother told me once that when we give someone else what we want the most, we heal the broken part inside of us." I hear her sigh across the wooden barrier between us. "That, somehow, peace exists when we… give it to someone else."

I hear her sniff slightly. "I know." She says weakly. "I know what you mean and I accept that. But I'm afraid to understand. I don't want to understand. I don't want to know his side. My greatest fear is that there is a story behind what he did, something that will make me realize – no matter how grudgingly – that he's human, too. That he deserves some form of redemption. Something that will make me hate him less, because I'll pity him. I don't want that, Brittany. I just can't."

I hear a thud, and I know she's kicked something over.

Then it hits me all of a sudden, the truth that I hadn't realized until now. Some part of me always thought I was the one struggling the most with what happened, that since I was the one who saw him die, I was the one who was suffering more.

But now, hearing how broken Santana really is, I realize that I'm wrong.

I'm filled by an all-consuming desire to hold her in my arms, to wrap myself around her. To let her feel my love, because it's all I can give her right now. I can't heal all the holes of her shattered soul, but I can show her that she's not alone. I can't illuminate all the darkened corners of her mind, but I can let her see that deep down inside, she's filled with so much blinding light.

I wrench the door open, and she falls into my arms.

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><p>For a moment Brittany and I stare at each other wordlessly, then she leans forward and tentatively brushes her lips to mine. I kiss her back softly, slightly befuddled, until she begins to pull me slowly towards the bed. I break the kiss hastily, saying, "Britt, I –"<p>

"Please." She begs me softly. "Please. I need this. You need this. I need you. I need us. I just want to feel you. _Please._"

My mouth goes dry, but I nod once. Relief floods her face and she kisses me again, tugging me until we both fall onto the soft mattress.

Leaning over Brittany on my hands and knees, for a moment I'm nothing but nervous. Neither of us have done this is in six months, and for a brief insecure moment I convince myself that I'm not going to be able to satisfy her, that I don't remember how. Brittany senses – she sees and feels and tastes – my hesitation, and crashes her mouth to mine, her tongue plunging into my mouth, forceful and unapologetic.

She pulls away once to command, "Don't think. Feel." She kisses me until I'm out of breath, until my head is spinning and I can't think of anything except for an endless chant looping in my mind, going, "Brittany…Brittany…Brittany…Brittany…"

I quickly become a slave to my own senses, which are tangling together in a complex web, a feat only Brittany has ever been able to do to me. I reach for the hem of her shirt and pull it over her head, ever so gently. When I'm met with the sight of her bare breasts, my heart leaps to my mouth and my breath hitches.

She notices, and a flush creeps over her cheeks and she throws her arms over her chest in embarrassment. She makes a move to leap out of the bed, but I wrap an arm tightly around her waist and whisper, "No, don't." I lean down and press a soft kiss on her earlobe, before tracing its shape with the tip of my tongue. "You are so beautiful." I tell her softly. She moans in response.

Softly but surely, I peel her arms from her chest. My entire body seems to be moving on its own accord, and my two hands move to cup her breasts softly. She gasps sharply, her hands clenching my thighs, her eyes widening; I moan at the feeling of supple flesh beneath my fingers.

Those same fingers seem to have developed a mind of its own, and soon I'm pulling and rolling and tugging and pinching – each motion eliciting delightful sounds from the back of Brittany's throat. Each moan, whimper, gasp or sigh only pushes me on, until every cell in my body is aching to do more, to touch her with parts of my body that aren't my hands.

I want to taste her.

I draw my hands away from her body, and she releases a frustrated groan, glaring at me. In response I thrust my thigh to the point between both of hers, and she gasps, "Santana," as she throws her lithe torso off the bed.

I catch her in my arms, already waiting. I kiss her passionately, relishing in the enthusiasm she reacts with. When I wrench my mouth from hers, she begins to gasp for air, but I don't want to give her a single second to recover. I begin to lightly nip at the flesh of her neck, before latching onto her with my lips and sucking as deeply as I can.

Her moans are echoing around the room, bouncing off the walls, deafening me – but I don't mind in the slightest. I wouldn't mind either if this was the only sound I'd hear for the rest of my life.

My tongue begins to trace a path over her collarbone, before marking a slow dip in the valley between her breasts.

"Oh, God," She whimpers, her hands trembling over my thighs. I can't help grinning slightly, before pushing her back unto the bed and pressing an open-mouthed kiss over one taut nipple. Her hands find their way into my hair, fisting the wild curls desperately, her breathing is as loud and erratic as my own heartbeat.

For a moment I'm lost in the task at hand, sucking and biting and nipping and licking, until I realize that she's saying something loudly to me.

"What?" I ask, dazedly, looking up at her face, distracted by my own arousal buzzing through my body.

"You're overdressed." She repeats, her eyes a liquid blue fire. "I want to see you." Before I can say anything, she sits up and grasps my shirt, tearing it open so the buttons fly everywhere. She tugs the material down my arms, and tosses it uncaringly to a corner of the room. Then she grasps the material of my bra and tears it in half, with ferocity so powerfully animalistic – stunning and amazing and _fucking hot_.

I laugh at her, before shoving her back into the bed and kissing her senseless. "You are amazing." I whisper, once I break off.

"Please." She pleads. It's the only thing she says. I don't need to ask her what she means.

I begin to kiss slowly down her body, before stopping at her stomach and licking every single inch of the faint stretch marks there. "Thank you for bearing our child." I whisper. Then I reach to grasp her left hand in mine, and I slowly kiss the all too prominent scar lingering on her palm. I press it to the side of my face, before saying softly, "I never want to lose you."

I look up, and she's looking at me with diluted pupils filled with so much love and longing, it's painful. We keep our eyes on each other when I slowly pull off her pants, taking the underwear with it. I smell her arousal before I even see it, and it's so intoxicating, I'm already lightheaded.

Our eyes are still locked when my fingers brush lightly against the swelling bundle of nerves, and she releases a tense moan. "Breath," I tell her softly, crawling up her body so I can press out lips together when I plunge two fingers into excruciating tightness. Her breath hitches and her entire body squirms, but I hold her firmly against me until she's ready.

When her breath steadies, she wraps her arms around my neck, pulls me to her, and nods slightly. I pull my fingers out slowly, before driving them back into her sweet, sticky wetness. She releases shaky breaths as we find a steady rhythm, moaning my name appreciatively with every single steady thrust.

When she shifts beneath me and props her legs upwards and spreads them even wider, I know she's close. I add a third finger and increase the pace, finding the angle where I can push into her harder, and deeper. The moans turn into gasps, the gasps into growls, the growls into screams. For a moment I think about Mozart, Beethoven, Bach, Tchaikovsky, Marianelli, Williams, Desplat and Zimmer, smirking when I realize I've outwitted them all. My fingers, right here, right now, are producing the most beautiful symphony crescendo in the world.

I curl my fingers over the spot I've been looking for, a particular spot I know she can't resist, and I feel her walls clench around me as she screams, "SANTANA!" Her entire body stiffens and shoots off the bed, and I feel wave after wave of her wetness coating my fingers.

I gather her gently against me, watching intently as she slowly falls back down from unknown heights. A beautiful, satisfied smile graces her lips, and she sighs deeply.

"Awesome." She whispers in a breaking voice, her eyes locking with mine, shining with incredible adoration. I slowly pull my fingers out of her body, letting her watch as I bring the digits to my mouth, before sucking slowly.

There was no taste, natural or artificial, that could ever rival Brittany. No flavor, concoction, no drink that could ever compare to the heaven on my tongue. This was the taste that I was born to discover, the taste my tongue was meant to find.

She watches me with hooded eyes. "Your turn." She moans wickedly, before flipping us over so quickly, I don't even have time to protest.

She kisses me, the taste of her still lingering on my lips. She kisses me until I taste blood, and I'm sure the delicate surface of my lips have torn open. She kisses me until I'm sure I'm going to faint with lack of oxygen, until I'm close to blacking out.

Then she leaves me lips abruptly, moving to ravish other parts of my body. My breathing is sharp and ragged, but I have a feeling that's the effect she was going for.

Then she bites down – hard – on my neck and everything heightens.

Every sound seems to have its own distinct shape and color, as though I've developed synesthesia in the span of a few minutes. When she kisses the lining of my jaw and sings softly, "Yours are the sweetest eyes I've ever seen," I see a million tiny, golden stars exploding around me. When her lips on a particularly sweet spot on my neck and she whispers, "I was made for loving you, baby, you were made for loving me," I see shimmering glitter raining down on us from the heavens.

When she traces the outline of one breast with her tongue while squeezing the nipple of another with those immensely talented fingers, the entire room erupts in flames and I'm being devoured – but it feels so, so good. When she bites areas of my stomach that I'm sure will be turning black and blue in the morning, I'm leaping across time and space, bright colors erupting all around me like splattering paint. When she slides my pants off the surface of my hot skin, I feel so ready to just spontaneously combust.

When she moves downwards, gliding her body against mine, I swear I've become a conductor of some freakishly intense electric current, because the feeling of slick skin rubbing against slick skin is just electrifying.

And when she whispers my name huskily, her breath fanning the insides of my thighs, I swear that I die for a moment – because I'm convinced that it's impossible to feel so much pleasure and be alive at the same time.

She presses her nose to the sensitive nub and inhales deeply, releasing a pleased sigh: "You smell so nice." She grins momentarily, before leaving a butterfly-light kiss on the most intimate part of my body.

My hips buck, and I gasp. Her hands move to my waist, holding me down firmly. Then she moves back down and dips her tongue into me.

For a moment, I feel like I am everything: I am world peace, I am the solution to poverty, I am success, I am triumph, I am serenity, I am wisdom, I am maturity, I am love, I am happiness. I know all the answers to all the questions in the world. I am travelling through the Milky Way galaxy at a speed that light cannot rival. I am as glorious and magnificent as the burning sun, as powerful as a million nuclear explosions. I am one with the entire universe.

Her hot breath fills me, and her moans reverberates through me like earthquakes shattering mountains.

I am more than myself. I am hers, hers, hers, hers.

Then she presses a thumb to the nerves that are on fire between my legs, thrusts her tongue deep into the crevice, and I reach the highest climax in the world.

Her name leaps wildly from my mouth, I arch of the bed, and every single atom in my body splits, the subatomic particles scattering all over the universe like dust in the wind. And it isn't just orgasm; it's fucking enlightenment. For a precious few seconds, it's like I can feel everything there is to feel in the world, and it's exquisite, frightening, and so incredibly pure. I feel liberated; in this high that can only be Brittany-induced, I am free of all my anger, inhibitions, fears, and frustrations. I am more alive than I have ever been, and probably ever will be.

Slowly, I return into my body. The moment has passed, and I shiver once before dropping back weakly into the sheets. She lays a final, gentle kiss on the core of my entire being, before starting a warm trail of open-mouthed kisses up my body, ending only when she's face-to-face with me once more.

"Hi." She breathes, her face filled with awe, as though meeting me again for the first time after a long, long time apart. And in a way, she is.

"Hi." I breathe back, cupping her cheek in my hand. A tremor passes through her body and she leans her forehead against mine, sighing contentedly.

"Thank you." Her voice trembles with emotion. "I love you." The most amazing thing happens. My heart bursts from my body, and just…soars. "I'm yours forever." She whispers once, before claiming my lips in a slow, gentle kiss. "I swear to live for the sole purpose of seeing – and making – you smile, every day." She kisses me again, languid and gentle. I feel myself smiling before I can help it. "You are the only reason I manage to see how beautiful the world really is." Her lips find mine in another soft kiss. I feel liquid dripping lightly from my eyes, and I realize I'm crying. She pulls back slightly and presses her lips tenderly to the tears flowing freely over my temples. "You love me for who I am, Santana, and that makes me love who I am, too."

I whimper slightly, turning my head so my lips meet hers again. She moans almost soundlessly, and I whisper into her lips: "Brittany Susan Pierce-Lopez, I love us, and I love you. I love you, so, so much. I love you, fully and freely – and proudly so."

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><p><strong>AN:**

**To The Most Awesome Readers I Could Have Ever Asked For,**

**I am 17. I have never even remotely done anything like this before. If my inexperience shows, I am sorry about that.**

**It's funny, but I compiled 50 songs into a playlist just to write this update** _(Interested? I can send you the link. Don't worry, I generally have good taste in music, haha)._ **I also literally did a lot of research to write this** _(*cough* smut *cough*)_, **but ended up writing it more out what I believe it should be like, what I believe it should stand for.**

**Now, there are two small requests I'd like to make.**

**First, please do review. I'd like to know what you think, and if I managed to pull it off.**

**Second, please do promote. Take the link and put it on Twitter, Tumblr, LJ, whatever you can think of doing I'll appreciate. The story's almost over and I want to reach as many readers as possible before it ends.**

**Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.**

**Your humble servant,**

**privatephilosopher**


	25. The Language of Silence

A/N1: The playlist for Chapter 15.3 (please remove spaces, sorry about that):

www . mediafire . com / ?99l25xbnpw8fv

A/N2: Thank you, so much. Your reviews made me cry. I'm flattered most of you were amazed I'm 17.

This segment is dedicated to Naya Marie Rivera and Heather Elizabeth Morris. Thanks for taking the plunge and giving us that peck. It meant to world to so many people.

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><p><strong>Chapter Sixteen: Secret Languages<strong>

_Brittany: The Language of Silence_

There's a language Santana and I have mastered over the years.

It was a language I think neither of us really realized we were speaking; just like the depth of our love for each other, it slipped quietly into our lives, unannounced and unexpected, but welcome nonetheless.

It was a language that allowed us to say the things words failed to express, the feelings that always eluded their fanciful description. After all, what are words? Representations, signifiers, letters with their corresponding sounds strung together. In many ways, words are nothing more than the bridge through which we communicate our emotions.

Of course, this makes words – no matter from what spoken language – vital for any relationship to work out.

But when you give yourself completely and irrevocably to the person you love, when you commit yourself to living life for, with, and through them, you begin to build your own language together, a system of communication that doesn't need to go through the mind by the process of words, a system that instead goes directly to the heart. An unspoken – but rarely misunderstood – language.

Between the two of us, I called it the language of silence. The language that went beyond the words and highlighted the meanings behind them.

That's the language we're using right now, the morning after one of the most beautifully intimate nights we've ever shared together. There are no words that need to be spoken. There are no words that can be spoken. We both seem to understand the need for slowness, for softness, for silence. Words do not exist in this temporary sanctuary we've built for the moment, a refuge from the world and all its complications and questions and uncertainties. Wrapped securely by the arms of the woman I love, everything external to me seems to have lost meaning, as though the world simply slipped out of view when we were in the process of refocusing our lives on each other.

Right now there's just us, basking in the silence filled with tender kisses, soft caresses, fingers tracing gently on bare skin.

Somehow, we both instinctually seem to understand that we don't even need to voice how we feel about - and with - each other. There isn't any need to. Declarations of love and affection are meant to reassure people of the existence of that love and affection. But there just doesn't seem to be any need to reassure each other anymore about how we feel. We just know. Beyond a shadow of a doubt.

Sometime last night , I remember thinking to myself that we were finally breaking down the final barrier dividing us both. I remember thinking, now things will be back to the way they were. Now, things would be back to normal – or as normal as they could possible get.

But when I was laying there, moments after, watching this lovely creature falling asleep in my arms, it hit me like a flash of lightning: there was no going back to the way we used to be. The past six months had changed us both so much, and inevitably our relationship had come along and altered with us.

It brought tears to my eyes to realize that, because what we used to have was so beautiful and amazing and innocent and carefree. Saying goodbye to that broke my heart just a little, since that would be a chapter of our story – that was a version of ourselves – I was going to miss so much.

But the heartbreak of that goodbye faded quickly, as a rush of pride over how far we'd come swept through my entire being. Somehow, everything felt deeper now, as though in the past our love was still in the process of completely maturing, and now it finally managed to. It is true, what people say. As time goes by, love grows and gets wiser and fuller. It grows steadily until it isn't just something bursting freely from your heart – it becomes something deeply ingrained in your soul.

Santana smiles up at me, almost shyly, as though she knows exactly what's going on in my mind. Her index finger lightly traces the outline of my nose. She leans forward and lays a gentle kiss on the corner of my mouth, that small action shooting parts of my soul past the confines of our bedroom and up into the heavens.

I grin down at her and cup her cheeks in my nags, before leaning in softly for a deeper kiss.

We learned to survive the most painful of human circumstances – and right now, we're learning, although slowly, how to live again.


	26. The Language of Sacrifice

**Chapter Sixteen [Part Two]: Secret Languages**

_The Art of Winning_

There's a language Brittany taught me to speak, in all these years we're shared together.

It was a language that I honestly didn't think I'd ever end up discovering, a language that I was hesitant to learn, because wasn't part of my grand life plan. As a child, my priorities were success and wealth, nothing more, nothing less. Growing up in a household where I was exposed daily to two people bonded in matrimony who secretly hated each other so furiously disenchanted me from the fairytale concept of love and happy endings.

Then Brittany happened, and everything I thought I knew about myself, everything I thought I knew I wanted, changed.

The language was there from day one, from the moment I met her. To anyone else on the playground, I was the girl to avoid, the girl whose harsh, sarcastic words were sharper than a guillotine. Everyone knew that. Everyone except her.

I can't really remember all the details clearly, but I can distinctly remember how it all felt. There I was, sitting on the swings, minding my own business, and here she came, barreling into my private world carelessly and irresistibly. She said one of those things that are just so Brittany-esque, and everyone in the playground had snickered, expecting me to lash out at her angrily.

But for some reason that I don't think I'll ever really manage to understand, my five-year old self just stared up at her in shocked amazement. Maybe I was just stunned because the sun illuminating her made her look like some misplaced angel, or maybe I was just caught off guard that she actually dared to speak directly to me. Or maybe it was just fate.

I remember thinking then that I could pull the situation back into my control. I could blow her off, I could still say something so hurtful that she would never even want to see my face again.

But I didn't, and that was the first time I actually spoke _the_ language. For the first time in my life, I'd given up my sense of control of a situation, I'd let my guard down, I'd voluntarily given up my bad girl image to get to know this intriguing creature. It was all worth it, when a few days later she began linking her pinky finger in mine.

The language just seemed to steadily grow from that point on, until I'd become so fluent it was difficult not to speak it. And as it grew steadily, neither of us really noticing how it progressed over time, how it didn't just change with us, but change us, too.

But when puberty kicked in, it became a language that began to mean something else, a language that began to frighten me. I began to realize how speaking the language was becoming a testament to how our emotions for each other had long passed the boundaries of "Just Friends" and entered the realm beyond.

So, sometimes I'd balked. It makes me feel slightly ashamed to remember it now, but there were times when I desperately wanted to unlearn the language, when I did my best to stop speaking it. I knew deep inside that at some point, speaking the language was as natural as breathing to me – and that knowledge frightened the shit out of me, especially in high school.

And so came the statements like, "I'm like a lizard, I just need something warm beneath me," "I honestly don't know what I was thinking," and "Vote Santofsky." For the first time in our relationship, I was directing words that were cold, and cruel, and hurtful to us. I can still remember the heartbroken look she'd cast my way whenever harsh words like those left my tongue.

But no matter how hard I tried to fight it, the language just seemed permanently etched into the core of who I was. Now that I knew the language, it seemed impossible to stop speaking it – as though the language was something I was just meant to learn, and now that I did, there was no going back. Both Brittany and I seemed to know that.

It was sometime towards the end of high school when I finally came to terms with the fact there was only one way I could really be the person I was meant to be. Only one way I was ever going to give myself completely to Brittany. Only one way for her to give herself completely to me. I needed to lose myself in the language, to have faith and take the plunge, trusting that she would be there to catch me when I did. I needed to let the language run freely through me, as it was always meant to.

I'd never thought to give the language a name, but now, as I watch Brittany sleeping peacefully after two days of staying lazily in bed – leaving only to use the bathroom or to feed the duck or to pick up room service from the main door – I realize that I always knew what it was called.

The language of sacrifice.

Sacrifice is honestly such an interesting word, because people have all sorts of ideas whenever they hear it. Most of the time, people connect sacrifice to losing, to giving in, to giving up. But sacrifice is different from compromise, just like love is different from lust.

Being with Brittany made me realize that true sacrifice isn't even something that's asked for. All the things I'd ever sacrificed for Brittany, or for the sake of our relationship, was all voluntary – she never once asked me to sacrifice for her.

I've come to realize that during the moments of pure sacrifice, it was only her well-being I had in mind. It was her happiness that I took into account. After all, I could only truly be happy through her; her joy was the true source of my own personal happiness and contentment. Although I was delighted and touched whenever she did things for me, it was only when I did something for her that I learned what it meant to feel truly, exceptionally happy. Being able to receive from the love of my life was nice and sweet, but being able to give…that was bliss beyond anything I'd ever experienced.

Because the language of sacrifice is really just the art of winning.

Whenever I sacrificed something for Brittany or for our relationship, I always gained something back in return. It was for her that I sacrificed my carefully constructed reputation, my flawless glittering image, and it was only when I did that that I managed to reveal the real person inside of me. I sacrificed my cynical view of life and love, and that allowed me to see how beautiful the world could truly be. I sacrificed my anger at society and its limitations and discriminations, and I learned how easy it could be to find peace. I sacrificed my fear of loving fully, and I discovered the exhilaration of being loved back.

Everything I've ever sacrificed for Brittany – everything I'd internally given up for our relationship – helped me overcome myself. Learning the language of sacrifice helped me win against the darkness inside of me, allowing the light to shine steadily through. All that I only managed to do through her.

But I know that right now the light and darkness in me are battling chaotically. Because no matter how well I hide it, no matter how well I manage to distract myself with rebuilding my relationship with Brittany, I know that all the negative emotions I've been trying so hard to bottle up inside are still there. And they've only gotten worse, with Linwich wanting to meet us and all that crap.

I know that I don't want to. I know that every cell in my body would rather commit suicide than interact with him. But I also know that if I do agree to this, no matter how hot it will make my blood boil, it would be the biggest sacrifice I would have ever done for her.

I also know she has a right to this opportunity. Maybe I wouldn't forgive him. But Brittany deserves the chance to find that forgiveness herself; she deserves to heal completely, to find that bit of closure I know I can never give her. I cannot be selfish now and hold her back – that would go against everything that we've been building together practically our whole lives.

All of a sudden, she stirs slightly in her sleep and mumbles incoherently. Then her eyes open to incredibly thin slits and she looks up at me blearily. A sleepy smile lights up her whole face and she burrows into my arms, yawning, "I love you, San," into my shoulder. She's back asleep before I can even whisper "adorable."

I don't tell say it out loud, but I already know. I can actually feel the fight in me drain away, and the light bursts inside me like a fire devouring an oil spill. If she wanted us to meet Linwich, there wasn't anything I was going to do to stop her.

I would be willing to make that sacrifice.

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><p>AN:

**I'm sorry it took me a while.**

**In my mind, this installment was a whole lot of feeling; it was difficult to put into words. I'm not sure if I managed to express the emotions properly.**

**For a few days now I've been kind of freaking out because so many of you are urging me to never lose my idea of love. Now I'm worried that I've put love in such a high pedestal that the real thing will be superbly disappointing.**

**See, this concept of love is something that's really only in my head. It's not patterned after anything I see in real life, simply because…there's nothing to pattern it after.**

**Anyway, I hope you'll tell me what you think.**


	27. Into the Abyss

**I'd like to thank , who told me about restorative justice. Many thanks to kuliet4ever as well. **

**All my love to the readers and reviewers out there. My sincerest apologies, I didn't mean for it to take so long.**

**Tell me what you think.**

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><p><strong>Chapter Seventeen: Into the Abyss <strong>

"_I just want to start again._

_Maybe you could show me how to try._

_Maybe you could take me in,_

_somewhere underneath your skin."_

_Taking Chances, Lea Michele _

This trip leaving Ohio is one of the most difficult trips I know I'm ever going to make.

It's not because I dread the world waiting for us in the city. I know that there are still many difficult moments we're going to have to go through, and I know that the chaos of the city has the potential to unravel the inner equilibrium we found back in Lima. I know all that, and more, but I also know that Santana and I are stronger now, ready to rebuild the life we left behind.

It's actually the idea of leaving Lima that makes me feel sad. The last two weeks Santana and I shared in our hometown were among the best moments of my entire life. For me, it was a two-week crash course on re-learning what it meant to be happy, something I'd forgotten when Nicholas died. I think it was the same for Santana, too.

Up in the air, I turn my gaze from the breathtaking view out the window to an even better one: Santana, sleeping so deeply and heavily she's practically dead to the world. Hair mussed, face void of make-up, lips parted: she looks outstandingly perfect to me. Every now and then she makes these cute, breathy snores that make me giggle with adoration.

I spent the last two weeks learning what it meant to be completely and unabashedly happy again, and I owe every single moment to her.

I close my eyes and lay my head on the headrest, reliving every moment in my mind.

We spent the mornings doing all sorts of things. Sometimes we'd watch a movie (stuff like Up, Finding Nemo, Where the Wild Things Are, the Harry Potter series – all of his favorites). Sometimes we'd visit the library and read out to each other the books we read to him. Sometimes we'd go on long, rambling walks around Lima, visiting the places that used to mean so much to us when we were younger.

We spent the nights safe in the universe of ourselves, the galaxy of each other. We were deaf to the cacophonous sounds of the world; we were in the place where bitter judgment could not touch us. We were invincible in the darkness, where we basked in the perfect harmony that ran deep from within the core of our beings, the harmony that was irresistible, real, powerful, and all-consuming.

Every night reminded me why it was necessary to have an 'us,' a 'you and me,' not a 'you, you, you' or a 'me, me, me.' Every night reminded me that we weren't two lives brought together – we were one life, lived and shared together.

Every night taught me to learn the million ways to say "I-love-you" without actually saying the words out loud, sometimes without saying words at all.

Every night was perfection: to end each day gazing unreservedly in the quiet stillness at the woman I loved – and to have her gaze just as lovingly back.

On the night that I told her softly that maybe it was time to go back to the life we left behind in the city, she was silent for a moment, her fingers stilling in my hair. I heard her inhale slowly, before taking me in her arms and pressing her face into my hair. The position was so familiar and comfortable that I felt sleep seeping into my system before I could fight it.

Right before I finally gave in and surrendered to the sweet oblivion of my dreams – where Santana and I would meet again – I felt her press a warm, loving kiss to my cheek, whispering, "You're right. It's time to go back."

But all I really heard was, _I love you, and if you want to go back, we will._

It was on our last night that she finally told me, in subdued tones, that she was ready to meet Linwich. Until that moment, neither of us had spoken about him, since there seemed to be an unspoken agreement to spend time remembering our son's life, not his death. I almost couldn't come up with an answer in my stupefied state; I couldn't believe she was willing to bring the Linwich topic up after two weeks of avoidance.

"Are you sure? Do you really want to do this?" I finally managed to ask, in a hushed tone, my eyes wide. She turned to me in the semi-darkness of the bedroom and just stared at me for a long moment, her eyes tender, her smile sweet. She raised herself on one elbow and moved closer to me, all the while tracing patterns lightly on my cheeks with her fingertips. Then she leaned down and kissed me once, whispering:

"For you."

Like I said. There are million ways to say "I-love-you." And with Santana, each time is always more meaningful than the last.

Hours later, the speakers on the plane come to life, pulling me out of my memories. A practiced voice announces the imminent landing, and for a brief moment I close my eyes and shut out the world, willing myself to hold on to the bits of myself that I regained back in Lima. Then I open my eyes and turn to the darling woman beside me, still oblivious to the world around her.

I lay a light kiss to her temple, and her eyes open slowly, blearily. "We're here." I smile.

A look of quiet apprehension flashes so quickly across her face, it's almost too easy to miss. But the traces of dread and fear still linger in her eyes, so I reach forward to touch her arm lightly.

"You alright?" I ask quietly, brushing a few stray hairs back behind her ear. She swallows thickly and plasters on an unconvincing smile.

"Fine." She mumbles softly, dropping her gaze.

"Hey, hey." I whisper softly, linking our pinkies together and tugging until she looks up again. "Don't get lost in yourself, San. I just found you."

She swallows again, and whispers, "I'm just…" She pauses, struggling to say the word, "…scared. I mean, Linwich. All that, out there. Coming back means we're going to have to face all the things we've left behind."

"I know." I nod slightly. "But we're not going to be alone. We've got amazing friends who love us, friends who are going to be there for us all the way. And whatever comes our way, we'll face together, San. That's all that matters."

She does smile then, genuinely, and the worry leaves her face. For a moment she looks at me with this odd look of unadulterated wonder, before she moves closer to me and presses her lips to mine in a kiss so soft, it was barely there.

"I love you." She breathes. Her smile is so radiant; making me feel feelings so strong it makes my body go weak. "So much."

I grin lightly, tightening my hold on her pinky. "I know."

Quinn and Puck are already waiting for us when we walk off the plane. They smile cryptically to each other at the sight of our pinkies intertwined, before pulling us into bone-crushing hugs. They help us with our luggage as we head to their family van.

"So, had a good trip?" Puck asks as we enter the vehicle, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

"PUCK!" The three of us yell exasperatedly as he pulls out of their parking space. He chortles good-naturedly from the front seat, and it's as infectious as yawning: before we know it the four of us are laughing uncontrollably, the sound an epitome of years of friendship and unwavering support. It's beautiful to hear, and it makes my heart ache with happiness. Life can be hard, but with friends like ours, everything gets a little bit easier.

We continue to laugh at anything and everything, keeping the mood light as we make our way through the busy streets, back to the house teeming with memories. When we finally reach the neighborhood, Puck slows down perceptibly and straightens up slightly.

"You sure about this?" He asks seriously, looking at us through the rearview mirror. "You could always stay over at our place for a couple of days if you want to."

I glance over at Santana, leaving the decision to her. She turns to me, and I realize that somewhere along the way the uncertainty in her eyes had crumbled into nothingness, to be replaced by the steel resolve I now see. She shakes her head. "Thanks Puck. But we're good."

He nods once, and turns quickly to flash us an encouraging smile. "Awesome."

"You want us to come in with you?" Quinn asks gently, just as Puck parks the van and cuts the engine.

I smile slightly, touched by their unyielding concern. "Nah. We'll be fine."

For a moment the four of us just sit there, in the silence of the car, and I think of the language of silence again. I can feel it in the air, the scientifically-nonexistent atoms of love and support floating all around us, coming together in bonds made by forces stronger than anything on this earth.

"Hey." Santana whispers suddenly to the three of us in the peaceful quiet. We all turn to look at her, my heart doing a flip when I see the unshed tears glimmering in her eyes. She gives us a half-smile, one that I know is more sincere that many of her others. "Best family ever."

Quinn's eyes water in the front seat, and she opens her door and makes her way to the backseats. She throws her arms around Santana, clutching her tightly. "Best family ever." She agrees, laughing in between happy sobs.

Puck slides into the space beside me and takes me in his arms. I'm surprised to see the tears in his eyes, too, but I don't say anything about it. "Best family ever." He repeats, smiling.

After the longest group hug ever, we gently release each other and move out of the van. Puck sniffs slightly when he pulls our luggage out and hands them to me.

"I always knew you were a big softie." I tease lightly, punching his arm gently.

He looks at me and laughs. "Don't tell anyone, okay?" He jokes.

"Your secret is safe with me." I reply solemnly, winking.

We wave goodbye until their car disappears behind a curve, and even then we don't make a move to leave the front lawn. I hear Santana inhale deeply beside me, before turning to look up at me.

"Ready to face the music?" She says softly, reaching out to link our pinkies together.

For a fraction of a second I want to say something like, _'What music, San?'_ but when I see the softness lingering in her eyes and feel our two tiny digits wrapped tightly around each other, I say something else.

"'Course, San." I smile. "With you, I'm ready to face anything."

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><p>"<em>What you couldn't do, I will.<em>

_I forgive you."_

_For Blue Skies, Strays Don't Sleep_

"Thank you for coming to see me."

He isn't anything like I imagined. He isn't anything like I hoped he looked. He's young, handsome, almost looks innocent, and I feel like a brewing tornado because the emotions I swore to leave by the door when we entered this tiny room to meet the boy who killed my son are growing steadily in my gut.

It pisses me off to realize that he looks just like the sort of guy I might have slept around with in high school, when I was still stuck in denial about my sexuality.

Brittany's beside me, and she's taking this whole situation so gracefully and calmly it's almost maddening. We spend the first half of the hour in uneasy small talk. Or rather, Brittany and the mediator talk. There are four of us enclosed in this four-walled room: Britt, Linwich, the mediator, and me. Linwich hasn't been able to look either of us in the eye, and Brittany's hand hasn't left my thigh for a single moment. She's grasping it so tightly, I'm half convinced she's cut off blood circulation in that area.

"I know this isn't easy and it means a lot that you're here."

His voice is low and quiet, not at all like the high-pitched whine I'd expected. _'Shut up, homo spawn. Keep still!'_ and '_That's because of your pathetic homo parents, you freak,'_ replay over and over in my head, until my hands are shaking visibly in front of me.

I'm dangerously close to snapping.

"What do you want?" I snarl, the words bursting out of my mouth before I can help it. Brittany's hand tightens on my thigh warningly. I feel the muscles in the back of my neck tensing, and I roll my head around to try and alleviate the building pressure. I feel like a volcano, ready to spew out hot lava.

He swallows perceptible in front of me, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. His fear makes me even angrier, and that is the breaking point for me.

"What do you expect? Do you think we're all going to hug and jump around the table singing Bible verses? Do you seriously think that we're going to forgive you? That what you did deserves forgiveness? That–"

"I don't want your forgiveness." He interrupts softly, so softly I almost didn't hear it.

"…What?" It's Brittany who speaks this time. Her head is lifted, and she's looking at him with a look screaming of surprise.

"I don't want your forgiveness." He repeats, blinking rapidly. "I don't want what I know I don't deserve. I didn't ask you to come here so I could justify what I did. I'm not going to try and put the blame where it doesn't belong. It belongs right here." He points to himself, jabbing his finger to his chest.

"What the hell do you want then?" I say through gritted teeth, the lump in my throat impossible to swallow.

"I want you to know that I am sorry." _How dare you, _I want to scream_. "_I haven't been able to live through this past few months, knowing what I did." _What you feel can't even compare to how we feel. _"And that I will live every single day for the rest of my life trying to make amends for what I've done." _Nothing you can ever do will ever make amends for what you did. "_I know that nothing I will ever do can change what I did, that nothing will ever make up for the stuff I've put you through." _You wrecked our life apart._ "But I am sorry." _Fuck you._

He looks at us then, and the look on his face is frightening, because I know that look. I've worn the exact same expression of guilt many times these past months. This pushes me to the edge of control, because I can almost feel what it's like to be in his shoes, and I fucking hate it.

"I'm sorry." He repeats, in a softer tone, his voice sinking into my skin and making it through the layers of my body, settling into my soul until I'm drowning in his remorse.

I can't stand it.

I'm on my feet before I can even form coherent thought – everyone in the room looks up at me with almost identical stunned expressions – and I take off.

"Let me drive." Brittany says calmly from behind me, reaching forward in an attempt to take the keys from my trembling hands. I shake my head frantically, trying to jam the proper key into the tiny hole. _Breathe,_ I tell myself. _Breathe, breathe, breathe._ Her hands grasp mine tightly, and she repeats with more force, "Santana, let me drive."

I loosen my fingers around the keys and she takes them wordlessly.

"Are you su–" I begin in a pained voice.

"San." She interrupts, looking at me with shockingly clear, blue eyes. "Get in the car."

I follow her instructions, trying to empty my mind, trying to soothe the erratic beating of my heart. She brings the car to life and drives – going where, I can't even tell, my eyes are so blurred and unfocused. My entire body shivers, the air swooshing in and out of my lungs painfully. I'm trying to find clarity, I'm trying to calm down, I'm trying to cut off, I'm trying –

"Can we stop for a moment?" I rasp out, my fingernails digging so deeply into my knees, I can feel the skin there beginning to tear apart under the fabric of my jeans.

"Santana." She replies, her voice sad, and small, and breaking.

"Brittany." I gasp. "I need you to stop the car right now or I might just jump out of it."

She stops the car abruptly, and we involuntarily lunge forward with inertia. Then I fumble with the door handle, almost breaking it, until she leans against me and opens it herself.

I hear her sniff as I push out the door and fall into the side of the road.

I don't know what I'm doing, or where I'm going, or what I'm thinking. I'm reduced to a mess of emotions, hurt and anger and frustration and guilt rushing back and forth in my head until the only thing I'm capable of doing is _feeling._ And right now I'm torn between wanting to stop feeling and wanting to feel too much. God, I can't. I can't fucking figure out any of this.

I stumble forward into the thicket of trees by the side of the road, rushing past branches and leaves and twigs, ignoring the scrapes each movement leaves on my flesh.

Before I know it, I've reached some sort of clearing, and I'm throwing my mouth open and howling at the open sky above me, blue and mocking. But all I can see his face in my mind, I can see the sincerity of his remorse in his eyes and it makes me feel furious.

I throw my fists to the closest vertical surface close to me, a tree trunk. My throat begins to burn and my voice begins to break, but I can't stop screaming: I can hear his voice in my ears, and I can hear the authenticity of his regret, and I don't want to hear it.

My hands begin to sting, and I don't even register the blood seeping from my knuckles. It hurts. It all hurts. But I want it to hurt more, I want it to ache more, I want the pain to reach a peak so I can finally stop feeling it, I want to drown in it so it can finally stop.

"San." I hear her call out from behind me, her voice filled with tears. "San." Her arms wrap around me from behind, pulling me desperately away from the tree trunk bearing streaks of my blood, bright red shining perversely on dark brown.

I fight desperately against her hold. I want to hurt everything around me. More than that, I want to punish myself. But I don't want to hurt her.

"Please stop." I hear her choke out, her voice near my ear. "Santana, please, stop. Come back to me."

Her pained request sends my entire body into automatic shut-down, and I collapse in her arms, feeling incredibly weak all of a sudden. After all my hysterically yelling, my ragged breathing and broken sobbing sound especially loud in the silence.

"Tell me how you feel." I blurt out hoarsely after a short moment. "Tell me it worked for you." Her arms tighten around me, keeping me thoroughly grounded in the here and now – anchoring me to the present. "Tell me you feel better." She turns my around and presses me to her, her tears washing my face. "Tell me it was all worth it." I feel my own tears leaking from the corners of my eyes. "Tell me you found what you were looking for."

"I was looking in the wrong place." She admits gently, her fingers brushing through my hair. "We were looking in the wrong place."

"What do you mean?" I ask, in a strangled voice.

She nuzzles her nose against mine. "I was looking for peace." She looks directly into my eyes. "I was looking for closure. I thought we were going to find all those things if we met up with him." She inhales slowly. "Meeting him like that made me understand more, it made me stop feeling afraid of him, it helped me acknowledge that he's human and he made a mistake. Hearing what he had to say did make me feel a bit better. But I didn't find what I was looking for."

My eyes drop. I feel my entire body sag in her arms, disappointment racing hotly in my veins. I failed. I did my best to give her what she needed – I sacrificed my initial anger to get her what I thought she needed – but I still failed.

"I was wrong, thinking that forgiving him would make me feel better." She continues, oblivious to my internal despair. "I realized, in that tiny room, that it wasn't Linwich that I needed to forgive if I wanted to heal completely."

My eyes snap up, confusion replacing disappointment. "What?" I whisper weakly.

For a moment she says nothing. Then she unwraps her arms from my body and takes both my hands in hers. She inspects my busted knuckles, then reaches into her pocket to pull out tissue. Gently, she presses the tissue on the injuries, staunching the bleeding. Then she holds my face in her warm hands, gazing at me steadily. Then she murmurs, in a gentle voice that sounds like I'm a wounded animal she's coaxing to her, "We need to forgive ourselves."

The truth behind her words explodes in me like fireworks from _V from Vendetta_. I jerk in her arms and fall back slightly. "Wh-What?" I stutter.

She tugs me back to her and embraces me tightly. "I know you know what I'm talking about, San." She says in a quiet tone. "I could see it on your face when he looked at us." Her arms tighten around me. "Somehow, you still blame you. Just like I still blame me. And that's why we still haven't really been able to let go."

"We've talked about this –" I try to interrupt.

"Sure, I know we have. And we agreed to stop dwelling on the past and to focus on the future, because nothing we can do now will bring our son back. But somewhere deep inside, we haven't really forgiven ourselves because we still feel like we deserve the blame." She inhales deeply. "I think we blame ourselves more than we blame Linwich."

She drops her voice in pitch and volume and continues, "But now I actually feel a little bit more ready to move on, San. We do deserve to move on. So, I want you to know… I don't blame you." She pulls back and looks deeply into my eyes, and whispers. "I don't blame you, but I want you to know that I forgive you anyway." She says the last four words with clear distinction, emphasizing them heavily, etching them into my skin. "I hope that you'll learn to forgive yourself, too."

Tears cloud my vision, and my entire body trembles with all the emotions rushing wildly, freely, madly through me. "Oh, B." I mumble, trying not to break into a sob as I bury my head into her collarbone. "I don't deserve your forgiveness." I choke in a tiny, croaking voice. "But thank you." My voice breaks. "And even if there's no reason for you to blame yourself, I forgive you, too."

And just as the words leave my mouth, I feel the painful feelings slowly evaporate from my body like rain evaporating under the warmth of the sun, like tears evaporating from slowly heating skin. For a moment I can very clearly feel every single scar Nicholas's death left on me. I can feel every single piece of my broken soul, every single wound on my tattered spirit.

Then Brittany lifts my face gently to meet my lips in a soft, languid, cleansing kiss.

She kisses me until I see stars, bursting bright in my field of vision, blasting the image of Linwich's face away. She kisses me until I can hear the blood roaring in my ears, drowning out the sound of Linwich's voice. She kisses me until the memory of our encounter with Linwich fades from my mind like a photograph yellowing over the years.

She kissed me until the pain begins to fade slowly. She kissed me until I don't remember what anger feels like. She kisses me until I learn what healing really means.

She kisses me until I remember what it feels like to have everything in the world feel right again.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**

**for the angel1710,**

**because you left McDonalds take out on my cluttered desk on those weeks when I was completely and utterly penniless and eating Skyflakes for breakfast and lunch;**

**because you always get pissed when I finish a chapter and it's a cliffhanger;**

**because you understand that I'm afraid to read **_**Shine**_** because it hits way too close to home;**

**because we can talk for hours on our incredibly complex conspiracy ideas on Heya;**

**because you understand that sometimes I'm just like Santana;**

**because we can make fun of each other and laugh it off;**

**because you made that paragraph I wrote for SROF your desktop background;**

**because we live a floor apart but I still kind of miss you when you aren't around;**

**because when I really need you, you're there, and you care.**

**and finally,**

**because, deep inside, even if I hide it, and even if I pretend not to, I care too.**

**you're an awesome friend… bitch. x)**


	28. Remember Me

**A/N:**

**Thank you for all your reviews. :) They touch parts of my heart that I didn't even know existed.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Eighteen: Remember Me<strong>

"_The stars collide._

_We come back to life."_

_Still Got Tonight, Matthew Morrison_

"Do you want to stay over at Quinn's tonight?"

Her voice is soft and soothing, and I can almost picture it seeping into the cracks of my soul and cementing them, until there are no more gaps or holes.

"No, not really." I admit, looking up into dazzling blue. "Do you?"

She flashes me a small smile before turning the wheel to make a curve. "No, not really."

I nod and swallow weakly.

When she finally cuts the engine in our garage, she turns to me and surveys me in the semi-darkness of the car. "Are you alright?" She asks softly, intertwining our fingers together, careful to avoid the damaged areas behind my palms.

I lift one corner of my mouth half-heartedly. "I should be asking you that. You're the one who has to deal with me."

"Don't say that." She chides, frowning slightly. "You make it sound like you're some kind of burden or something."

"Aren't I?" I say feebly, looking away.

For a moment she says nothing, and I wonder if she heard me at all. Then she releases her hold on my hands and opens the door, stepping out of the car. She makes her way to my side, where she opens the door and reaches for me.

"What are you doing?" I ask in a startled voice, when she suddenly slides an arm behind around back, another wrapping under my legs.

"Taking care of my big baby." She teases. "Put your arms around my neck, San, I don't want to drop you."

"I can walk." I argue, even as I wrap my arms around her neck. She pulls me out of the car, shutting the door closed with an elbow.

"I know." She huffs, carrying me to our front door.

"Britt, seriously. I can walk." I pause, searching my mind for some adequate excuse. "I don't want to tire you."

She snorts, and rolls her eyes. The movement is so familiar and foreign – one I haven't seen in _forever_ – that my jaw actually drops.

"Did you just roll your eyes at me, Brittany Susan Pierce-Lopez?"

"Door." She says, ignoring my question. I reach into her pocket – wincing when the wounds on my knuckles make contact with the fabric of her jeans – and pull out the keys. I unlock the front door, and once we're in she slams it shut with her foot, before carrying me over the couch, where she dumps me, before covering my body with hers.

"You didn't have to do that." I say softly, reaching up to tuck a few wisps of blonde hair behind her ear. I cringe at the sight of my busted knuckles.

She makes a noise of disagreement in her throat. "You were being silly." She states, opening her eyes. "As if you could ever be a burden to me." She scoots closer and lays a soft kiss on my temple. "You are my everything. You know I'd do anything for you in a heartbeat."

I pull her close to me. "It works that way for both of us."

She hums, setting her head on my collarbone. "I know."

For a long moment we just lay in the complete silence, one of those many moments where we're talking without saying anything at all. Then she startles me by rolling off me all of a sudden, leaping to her feet.

"There's something I miss doing." She declares, holding her hand out for me to take. I raise my eyebrows. "Trust me." She grins. The memory of the last time that phrase was used between us brings a smile to my face.

When I put my hand in hers, she swings me – yes, like a freaking rag doll – until I'm draped over her back. With one hand holding both my wrists below her chin, she lifts my legs until their wrapped around her midsection.

"Seriously?" I choke, trying to hold back laughter. "You really miss carrying me that much?"

She chuckles. "That, and I seriously need to start getting back my upper body strength."

This time I do laugh, loud and rich and long. "Jeez, Britt. If this isn't strong, I don't know what it is." She begins to move then, taking large steps towards the stairs.

"Now, there's that laugh." She says fondly, twisting her head to look at me. "I was beginning to wonder what else I was going to have to do to hear it again." She turns her had back forward and begins to walk up the stairs.

My heart swells with emotion, and I press a kiss to the top of her head. "You're so sweet." I grin. "And this is just like high school." I laugh again, leaning backwards slightly.

Brittany loses her balance and stumbles a bit, throwing her hand out to grab the banister. "San! Don't move so much. This isn't as easy as it used to be."

"Sorry, babe." I press closer to her, just as she walks over the last step on the stairs. "Better?"

She nods, her chin accidentally making sharp contact with my wounded knuckles.

"Shit!" I yelp, my arms unwrapping themselves from around her involuntarily, my body jerking backwards.

"Crap." I hear her mutter as she loses her footing again. She grabs one of my flailing arms and pitches herself forward, throwing her other arm forward to grasp a door handle – the one nearest to us – to break the fall.

Except the door knob twists open in her grasp, and before we know it we're falling headfirst into the opened room.

_Fuck._

/

The first thing that registers is that everything looks exactly the same.

The bed is still in the corner of the room, Batman bedsheets as straight as he left them that morning. The bedside table is still at the right of his bed, lined with Scooby-doo figurines ("_Mom, can we get a dog like Scooby-doo?_") and Marvel/DC figures ("_Who do you think will win in a fight, Mami: Batman or Captain America? Say Batman._"). Adorably messy drawings of family portraits cluttered on his desk, and with a pang I realize that some are going to be left unfinished forever ("_Mami, if I draw a little girl here will I get a baby sister?_"). Hanging above the table was the newspaper clipping of Brittany in the LA Times, dust covering the surface.

There the tiny bookshelf is by his bedside table, lined with all sorts of books: the complete Narnia series (he used to have excited conversations with Brittany about the world behind his closet – _"Mom, you have to meet Aslan!"_); the complete Harry Potter series (he insisted we were all Gryffindors, though he would relent whenever I joked that I had to be in Slytherin – _"But only because you're really brave, Mami, and Snape was really brave, too."_); the Artemis Fowl series (Wide-eyed questions like _"Do you need to be rich to be smart?" _or "_If I dig deep enough am I going to find fairies?_") the Series of Unfortunate Events ("_Can so many bad things really happen to good people?_" and, sometimes, the heart-wrenching, "_You're never going to leave me, right? You're not going to die in a fire, right? Promise me!_").

The closet was as tidy as it could possibly be, T-shirts and polos hanging loosely on hangers, underwears tucked into middle shelf, pants folded into drawers, jackets jammed under the pants, costumes in the bottom most area ("_Do you think Uncle Kurt will get me a tux if I asked nicely?_").

And of course, the collection of random objects littering the room. All the science fiction things (lightsabers, plastic bows and arrows) were from Sam, while the toy musical instruments came from Puck and Quinn. Finn was responsible for all the toy cars, while Blaine contributed with all the sports balls in the room (basketballs, footballs, baseballs, that guy just loved him some balls). The Lego from Mike, the Rubik's cube from Rachel ("It encourages higher order thinking skills!"). Mercedes once tried getting him the latest edition of Wii, but I had put my foot down – no way my son would turn into some digital games geek at so young an age. He could do that in high school. Or he would have, anyway.

But as I said. Everything looks exactly the same. Everything smells the same, too.

But everything – _everything_ – feels different.

Brittany's on her feet, standing completely still by the bedpost, her back to me. I can see the slow rise of her body as inhales, and the gentle fall of her body as she exhales. I wonder if she's crying.

I am.

"Britt," I whisper hoarsely.

"I know" is the only thing I hear from her, her voice tiny.

She moves to his bedside table just as I stand, her fingers ghosting over the drawings there.

"In my nightmares it was always empty." She admits in a low voice. My body tenses; she never really told me about her nightmares. "There would always be two places I'd be trapped in every night: this room and the hallway." She lets out a short, sharp breath. "I'm so glad I don't have them anymore."

I can't think of anything to say, so I settle for a choked, "I love you." My voice is breaking all over the place, and the tears are making everything around me blur into indistinct shapes and colors, but my arms still find their way around her waist.

She spins around in my arms and clutches me tightly. _I know._ She doesn't say it, but I can feel the words surging through us both like tidal waves. _I know and I love you too._

Gently, she takes both my hands and presses light kisses on the dried blood. "We've both hurt ourselves." She whispers, opening her left palm to show the scar. Then her eyes drift to mine, and the intensity of her gaze takes my breath away. "Never again, okay?" She pleads, wiping my tears away with her thumbs.

"Never again." I agree thickly, nodding once. She sighs in relief and leans forward to press our foreheads together. We say nothing for long moments, the silence interrupted only by the steady pounding of our hearts and the exchange of air between us.

Then she begins, ever so slowly, to lead us both to the bed.

We ease ourselves unhurriedly into the sheets, immediately surrounded by the smell of him. It's everywhere, and it's intoxicating in the most amazingly agonizing way. Brittany squeezes her eyes shut, but the tears spill anyway, falling down her temples into the waiting pillow beneath her head. I crawl unto her side, wrapping an arm around her, but making sure to leave a gap between us.

The gap where Nicholas would have been sleeping.

This is a position we both know so well. At least three times a week we would come into our son's room just to watch the little angel sleep, and at least once out of those three times, we would make our way into the tiny bed to wrap our arms around him, until we eventually fell asleep, too.

Brittany turns and presses a lingering kiss on my forehead, and if I close my eyes I can almost imagine he's here with us, sleeping peacefully between the two people in the world who loved him best.

/

I don't know how long we lay there in the silence. All concepts of time have been reduced to less than nothing, and I feel as though I've been counting the passing moments with the number of breaths Brittany takes. In, out, one. In, out, two. In, out, three.

And in a way, that was all that really mattered.

Brittany shifts slightly, until she has one hand free, her pinky finger sticking out expectantly. Without hesitation I bind my pinky around hers, and she squeezes carefully, cautious of the unhealed wounds. I sigh softly, closing my eyes, burrowing deeper into the pillows. I'm exhausted.

"Hey San?"

"Yeah?" I reply, keeping my eyes shut.

"We're going to be alright."

I open one eye and stare at her in the faint light. "How do you know?" I ask weakly, and I can hear the doubt ringing in my voice as clearly as a bell, and I hate it.

I feel Brittany move closer to me, until her forehead is pressed to mine. I open both eyes. She's smiling faintly, and there's a pure clarity on her eyes I've never seen there before.

"Because of this." She says clearly, gesturing to our intertwined pinkies between us. As though to emphasize, she traces the outline of the two fingers with her free hand, slowly and deliberately. "Do you remember how old we were when we first did this?"

I laugh shakily, the corner of my mouth rising on its own accord. "It's not exactly something I can forget."

"Did you ever realize that it's been fifteen years since that moment?" She murmurs tenderly, pressing a light kiss on my pinky. "It's been fifteen years but our pinkies still fit so perfectly together."

Her free hand moves to trace the small path down my nose. Her eyes turn to me, peering straight into me, stripping of all my masks until she's seeing me as I am, vulnerable and frightened and uncertain. This is the Santana only Brittany has the privilege to see, the Santana that turns to Brittany in constant search of love, support, reassurance, and understanding.

She smiles at me, like she's reading my mind, and continues, "Do you know what this always meant to me, San? It was always a promise.

"I mean, we both know that linking pinkies isn't just a habit we picked up and stuck to. Whenever I do this with you," she points to our intertwined fingers again, "it's my way for saying things like, _I'm here for you_. _I'm not leaving you_. _I cherish you_. _I believe you_. _I believe in you_. _I love you_." She halts, then adds in a lower voice, "_I don't care if you're not mine, as long as you know that I am yours_."

I feel my lips twitching into a teary smile. "You are amazing."

She ducks her head slightly. "I've learned for the best." She whispered, poking my cheek lightly. She chuckles slightly, before continuing in her serious tone, "I know we're going to be fine, San, because we've made it too far to give up now." Tears threaten my eyes again, and I blink rapidly against them. "Because, what you sang in high school is still true: I've built my life around you. And I will continue to build my life around you, until the day I die." She nudges me lightly with her nose. "Your turn."

I swallow, my mind rapidly emptying. I look down at our connected digits, before looking up at her eyes, flowing with encouragement. Coherence floods back into my system in an instant.

"Because I don't know how to live my life without you, and I don't want to learn how to either." I inhale deeply, the next reason already worded in my head. "Because there still isn't anything more perfect than you and me put together. There's you, and there's me, and the rest are just… details."

"See? You know it, too, even if some part of you forgot for awhile." She presses a chaste kiss on my lips. "We're going to be fine. We are it, San. We Are It." She smiles sweetly. "I still have faith in us. I always will."

Silence falls again, until her breathing becomes shallow and even. Right before I follow suit and fall into unconsciousness, I press a kiss to her forehead, whispering, "Thank you for saving me."

I don't hear when she opens one eye blearily and replies just as softly, "Always."

* * *

><p>"<em>Farewell, nightmares, I am free;<em>

_welcome streams of sweet dreams that settle over me."_

_Steady As She Goes, Sky Sailing_

Packing becomes much easier after that.

We spend the next day sorting through all of his things. Almost every object has a funny story attached to it, but we laugh at the stories just as much as we cry to them. It's excruciatingly bittersweet, but we go through with it anyway.

I'm not going to pretend any of this is easy. Right now, it probably is the most difficult thing I've ever had to do in my life, and I've done some pretty difficult things in the past few months. But in the moments when I would falter, when I would hold an object and feel overwhelmed with the memories I would connect it to, Santana would reach out and touch my pinky with hers, and the courage to continue would surge through me. The courage I can't find in myself, I find in her.

We take our time with the task, relishing in slowness, refusing to hurry. He deserved all the time in the world, and we were going to dedicate as much of it as we could to the memory of him. After all, it's all we have left.

It's almost midnight when everything is finally fixed into their respective boxes. We've both cried so many tears it should be impossible to cry some more, but we do, anyway. But these tears feel different. They feel less painful, less like cold, sharp blades running down my cheeks. They feel more peaceful, like water washing away the remnants of a bitter poison.

We leave the room and make our way to the kitchen, raiding the refrigerator and almost emptying it of its contents. We don't say much, but we don't feel uneasy with the lack of conversation. In the silence, as it always is, we say more than words.

It's a little after one in the morning when we make our way back into his room. For a moment we stand in by the door, surveying the emptiness. Then Santana remarks: "It's so…bare." She moves to sit on the edge of the bed, her shoulders sagging, until she looks like she's folding into herself.

I walk over the boxes at my feet and make my way to her, dropping into the space beside her. "Well, yeah." I wrap one arm around her, leaning my chin unto her shoulder. "This room does look so empty." I look around. "But you know something, San? The room in our hearts, the room where he really is? That room is always full."

She turns to look at me then, and she gives a tiny smile, her eyes shimmering with gratitude in the darkness. _I love you._

We fall asleep again on his bed. It's the last time we ever do.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**

**For m–**

because when we're mad at someone we have the most twisted ideas for revenge;

because college sucks 'cause you aren't here and I miss you so much;

because when we fight it's freaking WWIII and no one, no one, is spared from our wrath;

because no one will ever, ever understand me the way you do;

because the only reason I even got into Glee is because you wanted me to (first song you made me hear was No Air. You said it was our song and I almost choked);

because you are my sanctuary, and I need you so much it _fucking_ frightens me;

because you know how to pick up the pieces of me when I break apart;

because you have faith in me and who I can be;

because you bring out the best in me – the best I didn't know even existed;

and finally,

because, as S told B… "You're my best friend."


	29. The Way Back

**A/N: I'm sorry it took so long. Bad things have been happening. I dedicate this chapter to someone important to me, lying in a surgical ward back home.**

**On a side note, this adventure is almost over. :'(**

**I want to hear from you. I **_**need**_** to hear from you. Anonymous or not, doesn't matter. I dare you to tell me what your favorite moment, favorite line, or favorite whatever in this story has been so far.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Nineteen:<strong> **The Way Back**

_"Lights will guide you home_  
><em> And ignite your bones<em>  
><em> And I will try to fix you."<em>

_Fix You, Coldplay_**  
><strong>

Life goes on. This time, it really does.

It's been almost two months since we cleaned out Nicholas's room. We decided to keep only a precious few of his possessions, giving away his clothes to a local charity hosted by a small church community, and donating most of his toys to a daycare nearby.

I ached, literally, when I parted with his things, and I almost always felt as though I was parting with bits of my son himself. But Brittany was there to hold my hand, and she never let go. She's become so much stronger now than she ever was. It's inspiring.

She was the one who fixed up the house one day when I was at work. I came home to find the walls brighter with the framed family photographs and messy drawings back in their place, the duck-shaped oven mittens hanging proudly in the kitchen, the magnets shining on the refrigerator door. It made me cry. Then it made me smile.

I've been back in work for more than a month now, and I'm adjusting back nicely into the hectic routine only occupations like mine bring. I have a new office, too. It came along with the new title.

But more importantly, Britt's dancing again. She isn't working, but that isn't what matters.

I woke up one Sunday morning to the soft sound of music pumping from the living room, and I made my bleary way downstairs to find the heart-warming sight of my wife losing herself in rhythm and sound. She noticed me watching, and motioned for me to join her. We ended up bouncing and jumping around the living room, laughing like we were teenagers again. It was hilarious, and relaxing, and liberating. We do it every weekend.

Except for this morning. Brittany shook me awake and told me in an urgent voice that there was something we needed to do. She dragged me to our car and strapped me into the seat, before jumping into the driver's seat.

"Where are we going?" I had asked, yawning, rubbing my eyes.

She had shaken her head, tight-lipped. "You'll see."

I had frowned slightly, but decided not to push it. _Trust and let go,_ I had told myself softly. It was only when she made a turn right into the opened gates that I realized where we were.

/

The air is chilly in the graveyard, and I can see my breath forming in front of me in a white fog. Our pinkies are wrapped together as we make our way to our destination, a headstone within eyesight.

When we reach it, I turn my face away, like a child averting their eyes in a scary scene in a horror movie. Then I feel Brittany pull her pinky away to link our fingers firmly and securely together. She sits down gingerly on the damp grass, pulling me gently to her lap.

"Sometimes," she says to me in an honest tone, "I still don't want to move on."

I remain mute, nuzzling my head into her shoulder, urging her silently to continue.

"Sometimes, it still feels unfair to move on, you know?"

"I know." I nod against her skin, my voice slightly hoarse. "I know, babe."

"But at the same time," she continues, ignoring me, "I know that we should go on. Not just for ourselves, but for _him_. Now we aren't just living our lives for ourselves. We're living for him. He's living through us. So we've got to go on and live the life he never got to live."

I sit up slowly, looking at her fully. Her words are echoing in my mind, the truth reverberating in my soul like echoes bouncing around mountainsides. "You're so smart, you know that?"I whisper softly, swallowing past the growing lump in my throat, blinking against the onslaught of tears. I laugh shakily, squeezing her fingers. "So, so smart."

She smiles tenderly at me. Then she pretends to look hurt and teases, "Ouch. I thought you knew that. Didn't you marry me for my brains?"

"Absolutely not." I snicker, shaking my head solemnly. Then I lay my head on the spot in her chest where I know her heart is, declaring gently, "I married you for this." I look up at her, and smile. "For your heart."

She presses a quick, light kiss on my forehead, pressing her cheek on the crown of my head and tucking me into her arms. We remain quiet for a few moments, before she says clearly, "Now that we've put the whole Linwich thing behind us, there is something I want to do."

"What?" I ask nonchalantly, but I feel I've got a pretty good idea what she's talking about.

"You know what."

I smile at this, before sitting up and sighing. I lay my hands on my lap and think for a moment. "It isn't going to be easy."

"I thought you wanted this." She asks, eyebrows rising ever so slightly. "Besides, compared to the past few months, I think it's going to be a piece of cake, San."

I look into her eyes. I'm almost blown away by the depth of seriousness I see there. It dawns on me that she's changed so much; that she isn't the same person I fell in love with, not quite. For a brief moment my eyes drop and I'm filled with sadness that we no longer are the same people we used to be.

Then Brittany cups my chin and pulls my gaze back up to her. And I realize that it doesn't matter, because I know I love this version of Brittany so much more than I've ever loved any other version of her. She's grown so much, and so has my love for her. I love her now more than I ever have. I feel the admiration and adoration and affection buzzing through me like flash floods, and I smile.

"Alright, B. Let's tell Kurt we're ready to be his new anti-homophobia mascots."

* * *

><p><em>"If you want to view paradise<em>  
><em> Simply look around and view it."<em>

_Pure Imagination, Glee Cast_

I laugh before I can stop myself. "You think you're so clever, don't you?"

"Always." She shrugs in an off-hand manner, before sighing and leaning back into my arms. For a moment she says nothing, but I wait patiently until she does. "I don't think our sixteen year-old selves would have ever thought they'd find themselves in this kind of situation." She admits gruffly, tracing the path from my shoulder to my neck with two fingers.

"What situation?" I ask softly, rocking her lightly back and forth. "Making mature decisions?" I brush my fingers through her hair. "Getting socially involved for social awareness? Speaking up for that which was fair and right and true?" I pause. "Or being so deeply in love that we're willing to take a stand and fight for us?

She looks up at me, awe shining in her face, amazement lighting her eyes. "So, so smart." She repeats in hushed, admiring tones.

I laugh softly. "Only for you, babe."

"I'm honored." She says seriously, before pulling away slowly. I frown and attempt to clutch her back to me, but she shakes her head once, and lays a pacifying kiss on my lips. She inhales deeply before turning turns her attention to the headstone before us, and my heart clenches. I watch her when she lays her hands over the cool surface, swallowing visibly. Tears fill my eyes just as she closes hers. She bows her head, and begins to murmur softly. Snatches of the words she's saying to our son make their way into my ears, like tendrils caressing my heart: "miss you everyday… always will" "I promise…take care of your mother…best way I know how" "will always love you."

She pulls away from the headstone much later and rocks back beside me. She wipes the tears off her face, and it reminds me of a younger Santana, wiping away her tears after an emotional _Songbird_ rendition. Except this time, I can feel tranquility rolling off her in waves. She turns to me, and I can see the serenity settling in her eyes, the small, calm smile forming on her face. And I know it then. I can see it, and I can feel it with every fiber of my being. Peace.

"You want a minute?" She asks, touching my cheeks lightly. "I can wait by the car."

The answer in my mind is, '_No, it's alright,_' but the words that leave my lips are, "Thanks, San."

She nods once, before standing swiftly. She plants a kiss on my forehead and presses her palm on the headstone one last time, before turning and walking back in the direction we came from. I watch her as she grows smaller with the distance, then I turn slowly back to the headstone, my throat drying.

"Hey." I say once. There's a lump growing in my throat, and I swallow thickly. I shift closer to the headstone, reaching forward with tentative finger. I trace the letters on the marble surface: NICHOLAS LOPEZ-PIERCE. "I miss you." I tell him in a quiet voice. "Every single day." I inhale deeply. "I think about you a lot. But it doesn't hurt like it used to." I pause, trying to find the words to express the thoughts and feelings I know to be true before I can even name them. "It's like thinking about God." I finally say. "I know you're always there. Even if I don't see you." I smile softly. "You're in my heart. Always."

I feel the tears rolling down my cheeks, even if I'm wearing a smile so wide it hurts my cheeks. I press my lips to the top of the cold headstone, shutting my eyes. For a split second I see him in my head, clearer than any photograph. His dirty blonde hair is messy on the top of his head, his small, pale face clean and spotless. Brilliant, piercing blue eyes are shining happily up at me, his tiny nose scrunched in laughter. His dimples are deep in his skin, his grin a million light bulbs illuminating my life.

And I realize there's only one thing left to say. It's difficult to say it out loud, because it feels like the final, real acknowledgement that this is really happening, that I am finally, truly letting go.

"I love you, Nicholas." I whisper, his name forming in my mouth for the first time in almost eight months. "You'll always be my little Nicky."


	30. This is the Place I Call My Home

A/N:

**I am very, very sorry. I didn't mean for it to take this long. I got very ill. But I'm getting better.**

**Thank you, loyal readers, for sticking with this story. It was my first attempt at fanfiction. Heck, it was my first attempt at fiction, period. I didn't expect to learn a lot about myself writing SROF. Honestly, in many ways, these versions of Santana and Brittany represent two different sides of me. And I've just shared those sides of me with you.**

**I've contemplated writing a sequel, but I'd honestly rather have you guys imagine for yourself how the story lives on. Don't get me wrong, I would love to write more on these versions of Santana and Brittany. Letting go of this story is **_**so, so hard.**_** But I believe that true stories don't live on paper, they live in the hearts of the people whose lives it touched.**

**It was always been my dream to be a writer. Thank you for allowing me to live that dream.**

**Take care everyone. **

**privatephilosopher**

**inhappypursuit. tumblr. com**

* * *

><p><strong>Epilogue<strong>**: This is the Place I Call My Home**

"_**You look at me like you could save me.**_

_**You could, you know."**_

_**Try, Zach Berkman**_

**THREE YEARS LATER**

I woke up so early.

For a moment I'm far away, a traveler charting the lands that only dreams can bring. Then I find myself staring up at the ceiling above me, my head clear, my breathing even, my heart calm in my chest. No nightmares, no noise, no interruptions; just the absence of sleep.

I turn my eyes to the slumbering form of Santana beside me. Her head is tucked underneath my right arm, her nose pressed against my collarbone, her warm breath blowing against my bare skin. She looks so peaceful, and despite the small wrinkles appearing on her face, she still looks so indescribably beautiful. It's almost maddening.

I lift my gaze to the digital clock on our bedside table. It's barely five in the morning, but not a single atom in my body is clamoring for sleep. I feel completely and utterly awake, like I've been asleep for a thousand nights and tonight I finally opened my eyes again.

Careful not to make noise or nudge her awake, I peel the sheets off and pry myself away. I reach for the nearest articles of clothing, pulling them over my body. When I'm decently covered, I lean over and press a lingering kiss on Santana's temple. "I love you." I murmur, gently pushing back loose strands of her silky dark hair, before making way to the window.

I push the curtains aside and open it as wide as it can go, smiling when the cool, fresh breeze caresses my cheeks.

_Today is the day_, I think to myself faintly, smiling involuntarily. _Today is the day._

I stare far out into the dark horizon, the city lights twinkling like fallen stars, or like radiant dots that need to be connected to form a pattern. I can see the steady lights of cars as they make their way towards their destinations, the buzzing of beams as they turn on and off. The moon is full and glowing faintly overhead. Breathtaking.

I stare at the landscape until I feel two arms wrap around my waist, and a cheek pressing on my back gently.

"Hello." I whisper, covering her hands with mine and squeezing lightly. "You're up early."

"So are you." Her voice is laced with drowsiness, and I chuckle at the raspy sound. "Everything alright?"

I smile at her question. Is everything alright? I think of how long we've come, of all the things we've managed to achieve individually and together, I think of all our friends and our families, I think of all the lives we've touched and changed, and all the lives that have touched and changed us. I think of my gift for her, hidden in a place I know she won't suspect, and how my gift will change everything. "Perfect." I answer, lifting one of her hands and kissing her palm lightly. "Everything is perfect."

I feel her smile into my shoulder blade. She says nothing in response, and together in the silence we welcome the sun as it rises slowly, cutting a thin, red-orange line in the sky.

"Happy tenth, B." She breathes, kissing my shoulder.

I turn around and embrace her tightly. "Happy tenth, S."

/

I promised myself that I wouldn't cry, but friends have a way of making you feel so loved that you become so overwhelmed and tears are the only way to express how happy you feel. Just like Quinn's long, long speech, which had me crying way before we even reached the end.

"…S and B, I have learned so much from you both. I have learned the true meaning of strength, and courage, and compassion and forgiveness.

"And most importantly, I have learned what it meant to truly love someone, purely and fiercely. I love you both so, so much. Thank you for being together. It makes the world a better place. Happy anniversary."

Beside me, Santana is blinking rapidly while Quinn sits back down on her chair. I reach out and grasp her hand in mine, mouthing, _thank you, Q_. She squeezes my hand in return, smiling.

I guess it was a really lucky thing that Kurt and Mercedes's amazing music video _("…And thanks to the New Directions for secretly sending me high school pictures and videos. San and Britt, if there's one thing I can say for sure, you were never a sight for sore eyes. The two of you were always beautiful to look at. On the outside, you both complement each other so well – skin tone, hair color, eye color. On the inside, you both bring out the best in each other. No one can understand Britt like San does, and no one can calm San down like Britt can. The many people who have suffered Santana Lopez's wrath would agree with me.") _came next, which made us all laugh so hard, remembering all the things we'd done in high school, those tiny moments which seemed so insignificant then but influenced so much of who we were now.

Blaine and Puck follow afterwards, with Blaine singing and Puck accompanying him with his guitar. They perform a sweet rendition of _Beyond the Sea_. It makes me feel so warm inside, like there's a soft fire crackling in my bones, ignited by the company of true friends: these authentic, amazing people. Santana won't stop smiling.

Rachel and Finn sing a cute and silly duet that makes me laugh (_The Saltwater Room_ by Owl City). Mike and Tina dance a soft waltz that makes me pull Santana to her feet so we can dance along.

Then we open our gifts, floods of sparkling diamond materials hidden in delicate wrapping. I feel relief when I open Santana's gift and find that it isn't glinting. "It's a scrapbook!" Rachel squeals beside me, clapping excitedly. Everyone gathers around me as I open the large, thick book, titled "The Brittana Chronicles." Inside are a collection of materials that range from candy wrappers to pictures to movie tickets to scraps of cloth, with dates and places noted down diligently.

"Gosh, Santana." I hear Quinn whisper teasingly when I open the section on our Honeymoon. "I didn't know you could be so obsessive about memories." Santana smacks her arm in response, huffing. I laugh.

It becomes momentarily difficult to see when I enter the section labeled "Nicholas" because my eyes filled with tears. But I smile a lot at the pictures that follow, the ones of Santana talking in conferences on Gay Homophobia, the ones of me when I went back to performing on stage, the ones of our house when it was newly renovated. When I reach the last memorabilia, I notice around a hundred or so pages left empty. I look up at Santana questioningly, and she shrugs shyly, saying, "I figured I should leave space for the next ten years."

When I give Santana the tiny box that carries the keys to her brand new BMW, I joke that I got her gift certificates to a local bookstore. She rolls her eyes at my attempt at humor, before ripping apart the paper covering. "Britt." She gasps, when she sees the maker's logo on the surface of the keys. "You got me a car?"

"Yeap." I grin, popping the 'p' sound. "Perfect timing, too. Trust me, you're going to need it." I wink mysteriously at her, her eyebrows rising slowly.

"Well," she begins, "since we're giving the big gifts now, here you go." She hands me a folder with a thin, white ribbon attached to the top. "Hope you like it." She says casually, fighting back a smile.

"I already do." Inside are a set of legal documents, which makes me look at Santana incredulously. "Uhm, these aren't divorce papers, are they?" I tease.

"Silly." She replies, reaching over and flipping some of the pages. "Look here." She jabs a finger at one paragraph, and I bend down to read the tiny text.

"Oh my God." I choke. "Ser-seriously? You bought me a studio?"

"I did." She beams.

"San, that's…that's amazing."

"You deserve it." She murmurs, shrugging. "Besides," she smirks, "I bet you can't beat that."

I smile. "Alright." I raise my hands in the air. "I admit surrender. You win." _For now._

Just as I hear Santana reply, "Of course I do," Rachel begins to chant, "Speech! Speech!" loudly.

Santana and I exchange a glance. Honestly, neither of us really wanted to give speeches. But considering that it was our tenth year, and that we actually threw a serious celebration, it seemed right to just go all-out. After all, I think to myself, it's just our friends. We can say the stupidest things to them. They won't judge us.

That knowledge doesn't stop me, though, from feeling extremely nervous as the microphone is handed to me, my hand slightly damp with my perspiration. "Hello." I begin, swallowing, the sound of my heart performing acrobatics resounding loudly in my ears. Beside me, Santana sees my discomfort and squeezes my arm reassuringly. I look down at her for a moment, before taking a deep breath.

"I'm not going to say a lot." I promise. "Because the best things are said without words." I pause. "But I'm going to try and put all the things I feel into words, anyway." I can feel Santana smiling at me, encouraging me on.

"You know, most people marry because of attraction. Many people marry for security and stability. Some people marry for companionship. And I'm not going to lie, those are amazing perks about being married to you, San." I look back at her. "I mean, you're hot, and you make me feel safe, and you make me feel sane, and you never make me feel lonely." I stop, searching desperately in my mind for the right words to say. "But none of those are the reasons I married you ten years ago." I swallow. "None of those are the reasons why I'm still married to you now." I drop my gaze for a moment, trying to collect my thoughts.

"Honestly, sometimes it's really easy to live life pretending to be alive." I manage. "Especially when something really awful happens to you, like losing a child. You kind of go through the motions like a puppet on a string, or a lion in a circus." My voice halts, caught in my throat. Tears prick the corner of my eyes, but I blink them away rapidly. "But as long as I'm with you, Santana, I know I don't have to pretend.

"Santana, I am so proud to have you in my life. Everything you are, I strive to be. Whenever I look at you, I feel like I'm looking at this magical piece of art that keeps changing, becoming more and more beautiful whenever I look at it. I loved you from the start, and I always will."

I inhale noisily. "So, ten years, huh?" I grin. "Are you ready for the next ten, babe?" I look at Santana, and her cheeks are tracked with tears that look like transparent paint. She laughs and punches the air with a loud and hearty, "YES!" My heart swells to unimaginable proportions in my chest.

"Awesome." I chuckle. "Happy anniversary, baby. I love you."

I drop back down to my seat, our friends cheering loudly beside me. Then the microphone is thrust into Santana's hands, and everyone falls silent when she rises to her feet.

She looks around at all of us, wearing a smile that I know many don't get to see that often. "Today I realized…" She pauses, "I have so much love in my life." She raises a hand to wipe away the tears that have begun to run down her cheeks. "It's funny. I mean, sometimes it's easy to forget that you have people who care about you. Especially when times get hard and it feels like the whole world is pressing down on you, it's so easy to forget that there are people who will be there to help you get back on your feet." She swallows. I grasp her arm, squeezing tightly. She looks down at me and smiles through her tears.

"Brittany." She laughs shakily, "I don't even know how to say any of this."

"It's oka –" I try to interrupt, but she continues:

"You know, you don't make my dreams, Britt. You are my dreams." She shuts her eyes for a moment. When she opens them again, they're shining with resolve.

"You accept me for who I am. The truth is, I only really safe to be who I am whenever I'm with you, Britt. But more importantly," I watch as she exhales an unsteady breath, and the tears roll down my cheeks, "you inspire me to be a better person." She entwines our fingers together. "You are the reason, Brittany. _The reason._ The reason for everything I do, the reason for everything I achieve, the reason for everything I risk, the reason for everything I believe." She lays a soft kiss on one of my knuckles. "You said earlier that everything I am, you strive to be. But the truth is, the best bits of who I am are only fragments that I copied from your personality.

"Before you, all I wanted to be was popular and successful. But by being who you are, you made me realize that those aren't the things that really matter in life. You're taught me that being loving is the most important quality anyone could ever posses. Basically, you taught me how to love, B." She chokes slightly. "And now I just can't stop loving you. Hell, I don't ever want to stop loving you." She presses a hand to her face, and I feel lightheaded with happiness, "You changed me into a better person, Brittany. Thank you."

People all think of love differently. Some claim it is a biological attraction, while others describe it as a profound, inevitable force. And still many believe it is nothing more than an illusion, a fantasy. And I'm not going to argue with any of these perspectives. After all, everyone has a right to their own opinions.

But now, as I pull my beautiful, inspiring wife towards me, her eyes shining bright and clear, wearing the heartwarming smile I know is for me and me alone, a silent wish escapes from the music of my soul into the whispers of my heart.

I wish everyone in the world could know love the way I do.

* * *

><p>If someone had told me back in high school that I was going to end my tenth anniversary sitting, exhausted, on my couch with the love of my life, I would have punched him so hard my fist would have made an indentation on his skull. <em>"Absolutely not."<em> I would have sneered._ "I'd be all over the place getting my mack on."_

"Hey, wife. What are you thinking of?" Brittany interrupts sleepily, her head nestled on my shoulder. I smile.

"I was just thinking of how glad I am that I'm here." I reply honestly.

Brittany lifts her head to look at me curiously. "Why, where else do you think you could you possibly be?"

I open my mouth to answer but I realize there isn't anything to say at all. "Nowhere."

"That's right." B nods, laying her head back in its previous spot. "Wanna know why?"

"Why?"

"'Cause you belong with me." She yawns.

"Right." I agree. "I do belong with you." I press my cheek to her hair, closing my eyes and inhaling deeply. I begin to allow sleep to quietly invade my body, the warmth of Brittany filling my senses. "Happy Tenth Anniversary, babe." I whisper, just as I begin drifting off.

For a moment there's complete silence. Then –

"I didn't get to give you your gift." Brittany says all of a sudden, like someone jumping out of a dream. She shifts, forcing my cheek off her head. "Can't believe I almost forgot." She groans, standing up. I watch her stretch, before offering her hand to me. "Come on, it's upstairs."

"B, you already gave me your gift. It was lovely, and I'm going to drive it to work next week."

"Oh come on, San. You gave me more than one gift, remember? I'm entitled to do the same thing." She pauses. "Besides, this one is my real gift."

I groan. "Can you just bring it down? I'm so tired."

Brittany laughs. "Come on, gets your ass up." She says, poking my thigh. I groan again. "Santana," She begins seriously, "I promise you, if it wasn't worth getting you exhausted I wouldn't try to exhaust you."

I huff slightly, then reach out to grasp the hand still waiting for me. She hoists me to my feet, grin back in place. "You're going to love it." She assures me. Then a smaller smile graces her face and she adds in a solemn voice, "I know I did."

Before I can ask her what she meant, or before I can even analyze it, she begins to pull me towards the staircase, humming to herself. I recognized the tune almost instantly.

"I know that song." I say warmly, tightening my grip on her fingers briefly. I can almost feel her smiling in response. I open my mouth and begin singing along to her humming. "And the songbirds keep singing, like they know the score. And I love you, I love you, I love you, like never before."

When we reach the room she motions for me to sit on the bed. "Wait here." She commands, before disappearing into the bathroom. For a moment I think to myself that it's an odd place to keep a gift, but I shrug when I remember it's Brittany I'm thinking about. Of course she'd manage to find a hiding place unique and unsuspicious.

When she returns she's holding a tiny, rectangular box wrapped in glittering pink paper. She stops by the edge of the bed and just stands there for a moment. "Here it is." Brittany whispers unnecessarily. I see her swallow visibly and I realize that she's nervous.

"B?" I ask tentatively, reaching out for the package. When she makes no move to hand it over I cup her cheeks in my hands. "Babe, I'm going to love it. Whatever it is. In fact, I already love it." I tell her, smiling as reassuringly as possible.

Brittany releases a nervous laugh and allows me to pry her fingers off the present. I give her one last smile before gently unwrapping the box and opening its lid. When I realize what it is, the smile fades from my face and the thoughts are chased from my mind.

Trembling, my fingers reach in to take out the tiny stick from within the box.

Coherence slams back into my body, along with a million thoughts screaming for attention in my head. But the one thing I manage to focus on is a distant memory, one that I didn't think would ever mean anything to me, one I didn't know I could still remember.

I was high school then. I remember watching a TV show where one of the protagonists, a forensic anthropologist, asked the Japanese brother of a murder victim: "Is it worth it? Having your happiness contingent upon other human beings?"

The brother just looks at her with amazing look of clarity on his face and replies, "I'm willing to risk my life for my family. Why shouldn't I risk my happiness as well?"

I remember scoffing when I heard him say that, and switching the channel. Back then, such declarations of affections just felt so cheesy and phony, too much of the ideal to be realistic.

But right now as I stare at the pee stick in my hands, tears forming in my eyes before gently trailing down my cheeks, I know exactly what he means. After all, I was still scared. Some part of me still felt incredibly frightened with the prospect of having another child – the pain of losing one isn't something I think I could survive twice. But I love Brittany enough to be willing to go leap into the unknown, to trek into the uncertain, to throw myself into the hands of chance – as long as we would stay together. I love her enough to want to try again, regardless of what the future may hold for us.

"Brittany." I murmur thickly, the tears still streaking down my face like skiers speeding down white slopes. When I look up at her, I see that she's crying, too.

"I know. Me, too." She says back, laughing tearily. She lays her forehead against mine and smiles. "I love you."

"Oh yeah?" I reply. I wipe the tear tracks off her face and inhale shakily. "So how much do you love me?"

"I love you as big as the universe."

I chuckle, laying the pee stick gently on our bedside table. Leave it to Brittany to say something so sweet and silly. "You do know the universe is still expanding, right?" I tease, before pulling her to me and wrapping my arms around her.

Her arms surround me, and she begins to twirl us around the room in a slow dance. She gives me a small smile, but her eyes tell me that she's serious. "Exactly."

I pause, and my heart feels like its melting. I feel so much it's almost painful. "Well, you know how much I love you?"

"How much?"

I look up at her, into the brilliant clear blue that I know will never fade with age. For a bizarre moment everything just shifts, and I feel like I'm looking at more than her eyes - almost as though I'm peering into the very fiber of her being, the essence of her. I feel like I see her, more than I've ever seen anybody, and deep inside I silently rejoice in her existence – because only through her have I ever learned what it meant to truly exist.

I smile. Instead of answering her question I press a kiss to her cheek. "Thank you, Brittany." I say tenderly, the words already forming over my tongue before I can even stop them. "You are my home. You know that, don't you?"

Brittany's eyes begin to swim with unshed emotion. She pulls me tightly to her and holds on. "Oh, San." She chokes out. "You know you're my home, too." She sniffs. "And I'm never letting go."

"Good." My voice breaks slightly, but I manage to find the strength to pull away from her tight embrace. "Because I don't know how to live without you, since I love you more than I love myself."

She smiles sweetly, gazing at me adoringly. Then she cups both my cheeks in her palms and leans forward to kiss me.

Some part of me almost says that the burst of colors behind my eyelids looks like the waves of white light refracting into different wavelengths, producing the colors of the rainbow. I almost say that the music racing through my veins is just harmonious blend of all the sounds on earth; that her taste is as sweet as the sweetest vanilla. I almost foolishly imagine the smoothness of her skin beneath my fingertips to be just as smooth and flawless as a snake's gleaming scales; that her scent filling my nose can be rivaled by the scent of crushed pine. But honestly, there isn't any metaphor in the world, real or imagined, that can take place of the honest truth: everything I feel and sense is all Brittany, and nothing, nothing, nothing, can ever compare.

She takes my hand and pulls me to the window, where we watch the stars pass us gently by, holding in their glowing glory all the unfading memories of the past, and the unfailing promise of tomorrow.

**and I built a home,**

**for you, for me.**

**until it disappears,**

**from you, from me.**

**until it's time to leave,**

**and turn to dust.**

To Build A Home,

Cinematic Orchestra

_fin._


End file.
